THE  DEVIL'S  DIE. 


A  NOVEL. 


By  grant  ALLEN, 

Author  of  "  Babylon,*'  "  The  Duchess  of  Fowvsland,*'  £ic. 


New  York:    . 
THE  F.  M.  LUPTON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
Nos.  72-76  Walker  Street. 


rr 


-)  o 


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290012 


FHE    DEVIL'S   DIE. 


OHAFTEE  I. 

**  Now  then,  Sam,**  the  head  porter  muttered  sulkily  in  an  audvrtone 
to  his  mate  ;  "lend  a  hand  here,  will  you,  lazy,  to  get  out  the  black 
gentleman's  luggage." 

Dr.  Mohammad  Ali  stood  watching  the  poridrs  very  attentively  aa 
they  disembarked  the  bags  and  boxes  (with  the  regulation  show  of  un- 
necessary vehemence)  from  the  open  van  at  Polperran  Station  on  the 
tag-end  of  the  Great  Western  Railway. 

Oarlyle  was  right :  immense  and  unsuspected  depths  of  importance 
lurk  unseen  in  mere  clothing.  At  Saharanpur,  in  the  North- West  Pro- 
vinces, where  Mohammad  Ali  had  been  bom  and  bred,  and  where  his 
respected  father  still  lived  upon  his  means  as  a  native  money-lender, 
the  young  doctor  would  have  passed  in  the  crowd  as  a  very  decent 
Mohammedan  gentleman  of  the  stereotyped  pattern.  A  turban  aii4|  a 
cummerbund  make  all  the  difference.  But  at  Polperran  Station,  in  ifte 
county  of  Cornwall,  a  round  felt  hat  of  the  newest  model,  a  weU-made 
otit-away  tourist  suit  of  grey  homespun,  a  tie  and  collar  of  Bond  Street 
perfection,  and  a  white  rosebud  daintily  stuck,  with  a  sprig  of  maiden- 
hair,  in  his  topmost  buttonhole,  had  almost  transformed  the  handsoma 
young  Mussulman  into  a  genuine  free-bom,  fii'st-elass  passengvr.  A> 
he  stood  there,  holding  out  a  tiny  scrap  of  oJHicial  paper  in  his  small  and 
neatly  gloved  right  hand,  his  own  mother,  good  lady,  mewed  up  in  her 
zenana  at  Saharanpur,  would  hardly  have  recognized  her  metamor- 
phosed son  for  a  true  and  faithful  follower  of  the  Prophet  of  Islam. 

Dr.  Mohammad  Ali  was  decidedly  both  good-looking  and  gentlemanly. 
Dark,  of  course ;  you  expect  a  man  whose  parents  live  in  the  native 
town  at  Saharanpur  to  have  a  somewhat  sombre  oast  of  complexion  ; 
but  strikingly  handsome  and  pleasing,  for  all  that,  with  his  keen  and 
piercing  East  Indian  eyes,  his  delicately-moulded  small  features,  his 
charming  smile  of  perfect  good  humour,  and  his  two  even  rows  of  dainty 
and  faultess  pearl-white  teeth.  Even  the  port.ers  eyed  him  respectfully ; 
they  saw  at  a  glance  with  professional  instinct  that  be  was  black,  but 
comely — one  of  the*  right  sort  in  fact ;  good  for  half-a-crown  down  any 
day,  if  he  was  good  fur  a  penny. 

*'  Genelman's  got  a  dog-ticket,  Sam,"  the  head  porter  muttered,  with 
a  nodse  to  his  underling. 

**Irs  EMt  a  dog,  iny  friend,"  Dr.  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  amiling, 


4  TBI  DITIX.'!  Dirt 

In  English  *  great  deal  better  than  the  porter's  own.  It's  that  box 
ever  yonder — the  one  with  the  pierced  holes  and  the  stiok-out  handles 
to  it  Take  it  gently  by  the  handles  only,  and  don't  put  your  fingers 
too  near  the  holes  on  any  account.  There's  a  snake  inside  it ;  in  fact, 
a  rattlesnake,  one  of  the  very  deadliest  creatures  known  to  science." 

The  young  man  spoke  in  a  soft,  low,  musical  voice,  and  didn't  seem 
to  be  at  all  aware  that  he  was  communicating  a  fact  in  the  least  out  of 
the  common  ;  but  the  efTect  of  his  speech  upon  the  two  burly  Cornish 
porters  was  instantaneous  and  magical.  They  had  been  preparing  to 
swing  out  the  box,  live  stock  and  all,  with  tho  usual  generous  and 
effusive  recklessness  of  the  suborned  luggage-smasher  ;  but  at  the  sound 
of  that  talismanio  name,  *'  rattlesnake, "  they  laid  down  the  handles 
gingerly  with  profound  firmness,  and  respectfully,  but  very  distinctly 
declined  to  proceed  further  with  the  act  of  clearing  the  entire  compart- 
ment. "The  company  are  not  and  don't  undertake  to  be  common 
carriers  of  rattlesnakes,  sir,"  the  head  porter  observed  abstractedly; 
**  and,  what's  more,  at  my  time  of  life,  it  ain't  to  be  expected  as  I'm 
going  to  take  to  'em." 

At  that  very  moment  the  sudden  apparition  of  a  rapidly  vibrating 
forked  tongue,  protruded  like  lightning  through  one  of  the  drilled  holes 
in  the  box,  and  showing  an  ominoas  vista  behind  of  two  grooved  fangs, 
surmounted  by  a  pair  of  watchful  beady-black  eyes  in  the  dim  back- 
ground, gave  added  point  and  fresh  emphasis  to  the  head  porter's  de- 
cided protest. 

Dr.  Mohammad  Ali  observed  the  apparition  of  the  tongue  and  fangs 
irith  evident  relish.  *'Ha!  that's  right, x)ld  girl,"  he  said,  tapping 
the  covdr  gently  with  his  gloved  finger,  **  so  you're  lively,  are  you  ? 
lively,  lively  !  None  the  worse  for  your  long  journey  down  from 
Paddington,  eh,  my  beauty  ?  That's  a  good  girl  !  Softly,  softly  1  Put 
back  your  head  now,  and  go  to  sleep  again.  You  shall  rest  in  peace  to- 
night in  your  furnished  apartments,  your  own  hired  house,  my  lady. 
Do  you  happen  to  know  where  a  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Dr.  Chichele 
lodges  ?  Ah,  there  you  are  at  last,  my  dear  fellow  1  Delighted  to  see 
you.  I've  brought  down  the  Begum  as  you  see,  for  your  behoof  and 
mstruction  ;  but  your  porters  here  in  this  remote  district  appear  to 
harbour  an  incomprehensible  prejudice  against  venomous  reptiles. 
They  seem  to  be  afraid  the  Begum  '11  bite  them.  Lend  me  a  hand  with 
her  highness,  will  you,  Harry,  and  mind  she  doesn't  get  a  chance  with 
her  fangs  at  you  for  all  the  universe  1 " 

The  young  Englishman  in  boating  flannels  who  had  just  come  up,  took 
one  of  the  handles  firmly  in  his  grasp,  while  Mohammad  himself  held 
the  other  daintily  in  his  gloved  fingers.  Between  them  they  lifted  the 
box  with  gentle  caution  out  of  the  luggage  van,  and  laid  it  down  on  tho 
platform  safely  in  front  of  them. 

**  Now,  then  I "  shouted  the  station-master,  with  some  asperity ; 
*•  look  alive,  there,  will  you  I  Any  more  for  the  Penzance  train  ?  Got 
that  vermin  safe  out  of  the  van  7  All  right  I  Go  ahead,  then,  Bill  1 " 
And  he  sounded  his  whistle.  "  And  you,  sir,"  turning  to  the  smilinf 
Ewt  Indian,  **  you  can't  take  that  beast  back  to  London  sgain,  yov 


THl  dstil'i  Dn.  ^ 

know.    The  Great  Western  Railway  Company  hereby  give  notice  that 
they  are  not  and  will  not  be *' 

'*I  know,  I  know,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  with  a  good-natured 
smile  and  wave  of  his  hand.  **  But  the  Begum  doesn't  propose  going 
back  to  town  at  all,  Mr.  Station-master.  It's  her  highness's  intention, 
as  at  present  advised,  to  spend  the  short  remainder  of  her  days  in 
observing  nature  here  at  Polperran.  She's  in  splendid  poison,  Harry  ; 
in  magnificent  poison.  I  never  saw  a  rattlesnake  in  finer  fig  anywhere 
in  India.  Rich  and  rare  were  the  germs  she  wore — every  germ  of  them 
all  a  deadly  virus.  If  she  was  to  bite  you  this  moment — hi  presto,  be- 
fore you  could  say  the  usual  '  Jack  Robinson  '  it'd  be  all  up  with  you." 
And  he  seated  himself  carelessly  sideways  upon  the  box,  drew  ofiF  his 
glove,  and  tapped  at  one  of  the  round  holes  with  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger, as  if  on  purpose  to  excite  and  stimulate  the  half-dormant 
creature  coiled  up  inside. 

The  Begum  answered  by  darting  her  tongue  out  viciously  as  he  with- 
drew his  finger,  and  endeavouring  to  bury  her  fangs  deep  in  the  naked 
flesh  of  her  ardent  admirer. 

"Naughty  girl,  naughty  girl,  be  quiet  now,  will  you  ?"  the  youv  r 
Mussulman  murmured  playfully,  in  the  voice  in  which  one  usually 
addresses  a  toy  terrier.  "  Would  she  bite  her  master,  then,  would 
she  ;  would  she  ?  She  was  a  naughty,  ungrateful,  wicked,  bad  serpent, 
and  she  deserved  to  be  taken  straight  home,  and  well  whipped,  and 
sent  to  bed  supperless.  How  shall  we  get  her  up  to  your  lodging, 
Harry  ?  " 

"There's  a  sort  of  cab  or  omnibus  somewhere  in  the  place,"  the 
Englishman  answered,  laughing;  "but  the  'busman  will  certjiinly 
decline  to  carry  her,  so  we'd  , better  borrow  a  truck  and  wheel  it  up 
with  her.  But  you  can't  go  along  through  the  streets  of  Polpen  an 
wheeling  a  truck  in  that  hat,  and  coat,  and  buttonhole,  Ali.  You  lo<  >k 
for  all  the  world,  with  your  fine  clothes,  as  if  you  were  going  to  a  fete 
era  flower  show." 

Ali  lighted  a  cigarette  carelessly,  "  When  1  come  into  a  fresh  world," 
he  said,  pufBng  it  out  in  white  clouds,  "  I  dress  myself  in  my  best  accord- 
ingly. I  have  come  to  explore  the  world  of  Cornwall.  There  will  be  houris 
in  Polperran.  Even  the  despised  black  man  likea  to  do  himsulf  justice 
in  the  presence  of  houria.  Am  I  not  a  man  and  a  brother  ? "  And  he- 
looked  up  into  his  English  companion's  fair  fa',?e  with  a  comical  exprts 
sion  of  appealing  humanity  which  made  Harry  Chichele  lau;{h 
heartily. 

"  Well,"  the  Englishman  said,  "at  any  rate,  Ali,  we'd  better  taUo 
the  beast  up— I  beg  your  pardon,  I  mean  the  Begum.  By  the  way, 
why  do  you  call  her  such  an  odd  name  ?  She's  handsome  enough  and 
vicious  enough  for  it  in  all  conscience,  anyhow." 

^  Ali  helped  him  lift  the  box  tenderly  on  to  the  trolly  which  the  porter 
lent  him.  "  She  is,"  he  said,  removing  his  cigarette  from  his  mouth 
for  a  moment,  "  wicked  enough,  and  vicious  enough,  no  doubt,  or  at 
least  nearly.  For  she  couldn't  quite  come  up  in  wickedness  and  cruelty 
|o  th«  SupoJadlle  old  la4y  &fter  whom  I've  ventured  to  oaU  her*" 


6  tarn  vMfu/M  DIB. 

"And  who  was  that?"  Harry  Ohichele  asked  carelessly,  as  they 
wheeled  the  truck  between  them  away  from  the  station. 

"  Oh,  it's  only  a  strange  weird  story  of  our  own  parts,  but  you'd 
better  hear  it,  both  because  you're  going  in  future  to  be  the  Begum's 
master,  and  because— well,  because  the  Begum's  story  is  somehow  con- 
nected with  certain  English  families  of  some  social  and  douiestio 
importance.     I  called  her  after  Begum  Johanna  of  Deoband." 

*' And  who  was  Begum  Johanna? "  Harry  Chichele  asked,  with  that 
faint  show  of  interest  which  we  all  feebly  pretend  to  feel  in  things 
Indian  before  the  faces  of  those  to  whom  they  are  living  realities.  "  I 
seem  to  remember  the  name,  I  fancy.  My  father  often  spoke  of  her, 
I  think.     Perhaps  he  had  something  to  do  with  her  in  India." 

Mohammad  Ali  coughed.  It  was  a  dry  cough  with  a  peculiarly  arid 
and  Arab  significance  about  it.  "He  had,"  he  answered.  *' Your 
grandfather  knew  her.  She  was  the  wife  of  a  French  soldier  of  fortune 
in  the  wild  freebooting  days  in  the  Punjaub.  And  it's  about  her  they 
tell  that  terrible  story  of  the  buried  slave-girl.  Of  course  you  know 
the  story  of  the  slave-girl  I " 

*•  We  English  are  dreadfully  ignorant  of  Indian  affairs,"  Harry  Chi- 
chele replied  with  obliquely  apologetic  confession  of  ignorance, 

*'  Well,  this  is  the  story,  and  you  ought  to  know  it,  Harry.  It — it 
has  some  interest  for  some  of  the  great  Anglo-Indian  families.  Begum 
Johanna  had  once  a  beautiful  slave  girl  whom  she  suspected  of  having 
intrigued  with  her  husband,  the  Frenchman.  Whether  she  had  intri- 
gued with  him,  or  whether  she  hadn't  I  can't  tell  you  ;  but  at  any  rate 
sh«  was  a  very  lovely  girl  from  Cashmere,  and  the  Frenchman  admired 
her,  and  that  alone  was  quite  enough  to  rouse  Begum  JohanQa's  dead- 
liest jealousy.  So  one  night,  when  she  imagined  her  husband  had  been 
talking  with  the  girl,  she  got  her  bricklayers  suddenly  to  excavate  a 
great  hole  under  her  own  bedchamber,  and  built  a  small  brick  vault, 
and  put  a  trap  door  to  it  leading  from  her  bedroom.  Then  she  had  the 
girl  brought  before  her  and  flogged  till  she  was  almost  insensible  ;  and 
after  that,  a  couple  of  servants  lowered  the  poor  creature  down  into 
the  vault,  with  a  jar  of  water  but  no  food,  and  closed  the  trap  door 
down  tight,  and  put  Begum  Johanna's  bed  on  the  top  of  it.  For  nine 
days  and  nine  nights  that  unhappy  slave  lay  there,  starving  and  dying 
slowly  in  the  vault  ;  and  for  nine  days  and  nine  nights  Begum  Johanna 
lay  on  her  couch  listening  to  the  terrified  creature's  frantic  shrieks,  and 
gloating  over  her  agony  as  they  subsided  at  last  till  she  died  by  inches. 
Harry,  it's  a  terrible  thing  even  to  feel  one  belongs  to  a  race  in  which 
such  deviltry  as  that  was  ever  possible." 

He  said  it  earnestly  and  very  sadly,  es  if  the  feeling  of  his  kinship 
with  that  awful  woman  oppressed  and  weighed  down  his  inmost  spirit. 
Harry  Chichele  instinctively  felt  the  genuineness  of  his  black  friend's 
expression,  and  answered  hurriedly,  as  if  to  put  him  more  at  his  ease, 
*•  Well,  you  know,  after  all,  we  ourselves,  Ali,  here  in  Europe,  aren't 
■o  very  much  better  either.  It's  not  so  very  long  ago,  when  one  comes 
to  think  of  it,  that  we,  too,  burnt  and  tortured  our  witches  and  our 
oiiminala ;  and  I  can  remou^ber  myself  the  time  when  hov^  Ton 


mm  ditil's  dii.  7 

Noddy,  and  others  of  his  caste,  made  parties  of  pleasure  and  hired 
rooms  at  vast  expense  to  go  and  see  a  man  die  in  his  boots." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  the  Indian  answered,  with  a  faint  toss  of  his  head  and  a 
curl  of  his  lip,  **  that's  true  enough,  of  course,  my  dear  fellow  ;  we're 
both  in  pretty  much  the  same  box.  There's  a  great  deal  of  human 
nature  in  all  of  us.  The  ape  and  tiger  are  only  half  bred  out  of  us 
anywhere  as  yet.  But  the  awful  fact  remains  none  the  less  awful 
because  we  all  of  us  share  in  it  alike.  Rather  it  is  only  all  the  more 
awful,  if  it  comes  to  that.  The  wider  the  condemnation,  the  worse  for 
humanity.  1  regret  that  my  ancestors  only  a  generation  or  two  back, 
were  hideous  fiends  in  human  form,  and  you  console  me  by  assuring 
me,  with  your  graceful  English  condescension,  that  about  the  same 
time  your  own  progenitors,  too,  were  devils  incarnate.  A  poor  sort  of 
topsy-turvy,  '  You're  another  I '  '  Father  Confessor,  I  am  dreadfully 
wicked.'  *  Yes,  dear  son,  but  all  the  rest  of  us  are  really  every  bit  as 
bad  as  you  are.'  There,  there,  old  girl ;  keep  quiet,  keep  quiet.  Your 
Highness's  troubles  will  soon  be  over.  You'll  find  yourself  now  after 
ten  minutes  at  Ohichele's  room  in  a  congenial  atmosphere  of  all  the  dis- 
eases and  all  the  poisons." 

**  But,  AH,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you're  descended  yourself  from 
Begum  Johanna  ? " 

The  black  doctor  gave  a  sudden  start  of  unfeigned  horror.  *'  Me  ?" 
he  cried.  *'Me,  did  you  say,  Chichele?  Heaven  forbid  it.  No,  not 
descended  from  her  1  Thank  God,  not  a  drop  of  that  terrible  woman's 
cursed  blood  ^ows  in  a  single  vein  of  mine,  Harry.  You  forget  her 
name — she  was  a  Christian — Johanna.  A  converted  Hindoo,  I  mean, 
not  a  Mohammedan.  All  my  people  are  Moslems  of  the  purest  type, 
descendants  of  the  Arab  missionaries  to  India.  But  the  Hindoos,  who 
believe  in  transmigration,  you  know,  have  a  strange  story  that  the 
Begum's  soul  took  up  its  abode  after  death  in  the  body  of  a  rattlesnake. 
A  very  appropriate  dwelling-place,  indeed  1  She  was  that,  and  worse 
than  it.  So  that's  why  I  call  our  lady  here  the  Begum.  I  sometimes 
fancy  vaguely  to  myself — you  know  we  Indians  are  an  imaginative  race 
— that  the  Hindoo  theories  are  right-  after  all,  and  that  Begum  Johan- 
na's bloodthirsty  soul  lives  to  this  day  in  my  treacherous  snake  here. 
Look  at  her  eyes  I  How  deadly  !  how  jealous  1  Look  at  her  fangs  I 
How  sleek  and  cruel.  Quiet,  your  highness  ;  quiet,  quiet ;  you're 
nearly  home  now." 

They  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  one  long  grey  street  of  Polperran, 
and,  as  Ali  spoke,  a  pony-carriage  drove  lightly  past  them,  with  a  dark 
Cornish  girl  holding  the  reins.  She  smiled  in  much  amusement  at  the 
incident  of  the  truck,  and  bowed  a  hasty  bow,  as  she  passed,  to  Harry 
Chichele. 

**  Pretty  girl,  isn't  she  ?  "  Harry  Chichele  said,  raising  his  sailor's 
cap  with  a  graceful  movement.  "That's  Miss  Tregel las,  the  rector's 
daughter.  She's  the  belle  of  Polperran.  Renders  existence  here 
endurable  for  the  present.  Otherwise,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  I 
■hould  ever  have  got  through  the  summer  without  you,  Ali." 

**Sh«'f  more  than  pretty,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  bia  voice  dxo^ 


§  THB   devil's   DIl. 

ping  to  a  chivalrous  undertone.     *'  She  has  a  sweet  face  ;  good  as  well 

*8  beautiful.     Your  English  women  are  goddesses,  Harry.     Why  was  I 

l>orn  in  India,  I  wonder?    Just  fancy  me  marrying  an  Indian  woman 

-a  doll  of  a  creature  taken  straight  from  the  zenana  to  Middlesex 

Hospital  1     The   idea's  grotesque.     I  could  never  dream  of  it.     An 

I  inglishworaan's  the  only  woman  fit  for  me.     And  yet  no  Engliswoman 

v^uuld  ever  for  a  moment  think  of  taking  me.     Strange  that  a  mere 

iii.itinction  of  cuticle  should  so  completely  cut  a  man  off  from  all  his 

natural  peers  and  helpmates  1     Brain  and  soul  and  spirit  may  be  civi- 

I  /.ed  and  European  as  you  please  ;  but  none  of  them  will  weigh  one 

!.iain  in  the  scales  against  a  wrong  sort  of  epidermis  1     I  wonder,  now, 

why  the  epidermis  should  be  considered,  socially  speaking,  such  a  very 

important  part  of  human  anatomy  1 " 

Harry  Ghicheie  laughed  an  unconcerned  laugh.  **My  dear  fellow," 
he  said,  in  a  good-humoured  tone,  '*  your  mistake  lay  in  ever  divorcing 
yourself  from  your  natural  surroundings.  You  ought  to  have  stopped 
ia  India,  you  know,  and  then  you'd  have  been  satisfied,  like  all  your 
ancestors,  with  the  good  women  of  your  own  country.  Now  you've 
come  to  England,  of  course  you  won't  put  up  with  the  type  of  beauty 
usually  admired  by  the  faithful  of  Islam." 

*'  Never  1 "  Mohammad  Ali  cried  with  a  shudder.  **  Heaven  forbid 
so  great  a  degradation  1  But,  for  all  that,  I'm  glad  I  came  to  England. 
To  stop  in  India  is  to  starve  one's  own  moral  and  mental  nature.  To 
( ome  here  is  growth,  development,  emancipation,  freedom  I  "  And  he 
stroked  his  moustache  meditatively  with  his  dusky  hand,  as  he  stooped 
town  once  more  to  inspect  in  her  dose  cage  the  now  quiet  and  slum- 


boring  Begum. 


/ 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  next  morning  was  a  glorious  English  August  day,  calm  and  oleur, 
\vith  bright  blue  sky  and  glassy  sea  ;  and  Harry  Chichele  took  Moham- 
mad Ali  out  for  a  walk  along  the  beautiful  weather-worn  clifis  of 
1  '•  )lperran. 

The  two  young  men  had  been  students  together  at  the  Middlesex 
Hospital,  where  Harry  Chichele  was  employed  as  junior  house  physi- 
(-!  -n.  Some  months  had  passed,  however,  since  they  had  last  met,  and 
M  hammad  Ali,  at  the  end  of  his  medical  course  in  London,  had  gone 
Oil  bo  spend  the  winter  in  India,  on  a  visit  to  his  parents,  and  had  only 
jimt  returned  to  England,  bringing  with  him  an  appropriate  present 
f'»r  his  old  fellow-student,  in  the  shape  of  the  Begum.  For  Harry 
Chichele  was  allowed  to  be  the  greatest  rising  authority  in  England 
on  germs  and  poisons,  and  he  was  just  then  engaged  on  a  series  of 
minute  researches  into  the  bite  of  a  common  English  viper  as  compared 
with  that  of  various  other  venomous  snakes  and  poisonous  reptiles. 
It  was  the  vipers,  in  fact,  that  had  brought  him  for  his  summer  holiday 


ditil'i  dii.  9 

Into  Oornwall ;  for  the  wild  heather-covered  moorB  that  surrounded 
Polperran  on  every  side  supply  the  very  spots  where  the  sun-loving 
adders  delight  to  bask,  and  the  lizards  to  bathe  themselves  in  the  broad 
sunshine  on  the  sand  banks  and  open  patches. 

**  The  sea  looks  magnificent  this  morning,"  Harry  Chichele  said,  as 
they  reached  the  summit  of  a  jagged  and  pinnacled  granite  crag,  that 
jutted  out  boldly  into  the  deep  emerald-green  bay  below.  *'  VVhat  a 
lovely  purple  on  the  distant  horizon,  and  what  a  perfect  calm  over  the 
whole  Channel.  I  love  to  see  it,  vast  and  illimitable  and  silent  like 
that  1  Some  people  say  the  sea  is  always  so  changeable.  For  my  part. 
Ali,  it's  rather  the  grand  monotony  and  infinity  of  the  ocean  that  makes 
it  most  sublime  and  beautiful  to  me." 

*'  Ugh,  don't  speak  of  it,  my  dear  boy,"  Mohammad  Ali  cried  with  a 
sadden  shudder.  *'  If  you  had  been  tossed  about  helpless  upon  the 
bosom  of  Biscay,  as  I've  been  for  the  last  t<en  days  or  so,  you'd  never 
want  to  rhapsodize  again  abouo  the  sea  as  long  as  you  live,  I  can  tell 
you.  That's  a  pretty  sight  that  schooner  over  yonder,  under  full  sail. 
Hand  me  your  tield-glass  :  I'd  like  to  have  a  good  look  at  her." 

'*  A  lov*»ly  morning,"  Harry  Chichele  went  on  musingly.  *'  So  still 
and  breathless.  Glorious  weather  for  a  rousing  epidemic.  How  the 
conqueror  germ  would  float  and  fatten  on  the  stagnant  air  1  How  he'd 
spread  and  revel  in  this  basking  sunshine  I  What  splendid  chances  one 
would  have  to  watch  the  growth  and  development  of  a  good  popular 
plague,  wouldn't  one  ?  " 

Mohammad  Ali  levelled  the  glass  and  swept  the  horizon  rapidly  for  a 
moment ;  then  he  said,  in  a  quieter  and  more  subdued  voice,  *'  There's 
a  yacht  over  yonder  I  don't  quite  understand.  She's  only  got  a  single 
sail  spread.  Everything  else  in  sight  is  under  all  canvas.  There's 
hardly  a  breath  of  air  stirring.  Why  on  earth  should  she  have  no  more 
canvas  on  ? " 

Harry  Chichele  took  the  glasses  as  Ali  handed  them,  and  looked 
intently  at  the  shadowy  yacht  upon  the  dim  horizon.  "  By  George  I  " 
he  murmured,  "  it's  certainly  curious.  She  hardly  seems  to  be  moving 
at  all.  And  she's  got  her  sail  sot  most  oddly.  I  don't  understand  what 
the  dickens  she's  driving  at.  There  seems  to  be  something  or  other 
wrong  about  her." 

Mohammad  Ali  raised  the  glasses  to  his  eyes  once  more.  '*  She  gives 
one  a  creepy  feeling,  anyhow,"  he  said,  scanning  her  close.  "  The 
rigs;ing  looks  all  so  bare  and  skeleton-like.  I  can  make  her  out  a  great 
deal  better  now.  She  isn't  drifting.  She's  not  a  derelict.  There's  a 
man  at  the  tiller  ;  a  single  man.  I  don't  see  anybody  else  on  board. 
Let's  go  and  have  a  look  at  her  with  the  coastguard's  telescope.  I  feel 
convinced  there's  something  serious  the  matter." 

The  coastguard  on  the  summit  of  the  neighbouring  peak  was  sweep- 
ing the  sea  idly  with  his  glass,  and  evidently  had  not  yet  noticed  this 
particular  very  suspicious-looking  yacht,  away  to  westward,  As  soon 
as  Mohammad  Ali  called  his  attention  to  her,  however,  he  gave  a 
sudden  low  whistle,  and  gazed  at  her  long  and  curiously  through  hia 
■audi  pocket  telescope.     **  There's  something  up,"  he  exclaimed  at 


10  THK  DITIL*!  DIl. 

once.  "  She  ain't  lost  any  of  her  masts  or  sails,  that's  dear.  They're 
all  reefed  up  quite  regular  and  proper,  and  everything  ship-shape  as 
you'd  wish  to  see  it.  But  she's  got  the  rummiest-looking  sail  set  I  ever 
clapped  eyes  on,  and  there's  only  one  man  visible  anywhere  aboard  of 
her.  Yacht  o'  that  size  and  tonnage,  I  take  it,  ougkt  to  have  at  least 
three  of  a  watch  to  manage  her.  He's  single-handed,  that's  where  it  is. 
I  can  make  him  out  now.  He's  holding  the  tiller  and  keeping  a  tight 
hand  on  the  sheet  at  the  same  time.  Seems  as  if  he  was  master  and 
mate  and  cabin-boy,  all  rolled  into  one.  She  ain't  flying  no  distress 
signals  neither  :  that's  odd.  But  there's  a  red  handkerchief  flapping 
on  the  sheet — looks  as  if  it  was  meant  to  attract  attention." 

Harry  Chicheh  focussed  the  telescope  on  the  doubtful  yacht,  and 
raked  her  over,  f.>re  and  aft,  with  a  close  scrutiny.  "  She's  in  distress," 
he  said  at  last,  decisively.  "  Not  a  doubt  in  the  world  about  that.  The 
man's  holding  the  tiller  in  one  hand,  and  the  sheet  in  the  other.  There's 
a  red  handkerchief  tied  to  the  sheet,  as  you  say,  and  he  gives  it  a  shake 
every  now  and  again  on  purpose  to  be  noticed.  He's  trying  to  signal 
us — I'm  sure  of  that.  Ha,  now  he's  waving  a  handkerchief  in  his  hand. 
He. sees  us,  he  sees  us  !     He's  making  signs  to  us." 

'*  Bettor  go  back  to  Polperran  at  once,"  Mohammad  Ali  suggested, 
hastily,  '*  and  put  out  a  boat  to  see  what's  the  matter." 

They  walked  back  at  their  best  speed  to  the  little  cove — ^a  bay  of 
white  sand,  hemmed  in  on  every  aide  by  granite  cliflfs — and  hired  a  row- 
boat  from  a  man  on  the  beach.  Two  stalwart  fishermen  manned  thn 
boat  for  them,  and  took  the  oars. 

The  men  rowed  hard,  and  theywcht  sailed  sluggishly  on  before  the  faint 
and  almost  imperceptible  breeze  until  they  had  got  nearly  within  hailing 
distance.  Mohammad  Ali  held  the  field-grass  in  his  hand.  "  Tliere's 
only  one  man,  sure  enough,"  he  said  in  a  grave  voice,  eyeing  him  closely, 
"  and  even  he  sooms  scarcely  fit  to  work  a  vessel.  He's  ghastly  pale, 
and  very  feeble-looking.  He  totters  about  when  he  moves  on  the  deck. 
It's  about  the  most  mysterious  ship  I  ever  saw.  Never  a  sign  of  lif« 
about  her.     She  looks,  somehow,  like  a  plague-stricken  city." 

"  Perhaps,"  Harry  said,  "  the  owner's  trying  to  navigate  her  alone. 
You  know  people  will  go  in  for  these  foolhardy  adventures. " 

'They  dj  ew  closer  and  saw  the  yacht,  with  all  her  sails,  save  that  on« 
solitary  triangular  piece  of  canvas,  furled  and  reefed  on  tlie  yards  in 
due  order — a  bare  hull,  drifting  slowly,  slowly,  slowly  on,  before  that 
breathless  and  motionless  air  of  August.  Nothing  but  the  current  was 
bearing  her  along.  Not  a  sound  or  a  movement  came  from  the  yacht. 
The  water  hardly  sheered  off  from  her  bows  as  she  glided  imperceptibly 
on.  She  seemed  to  slacken  even  as  they  approached,  and  to  lie  idle  at 
last  in  perfect  inaction  upon  the  calm  surface  of  that  unruflBed  sea. 

"I  can  make  out  her  name,"  Mohammad  Aii  mused  aloud.  **Th« 
Seamew,  of  London.  A  pretty  little  craft,  but  deadly  still.  Ther« 
must  be  some  curious  mystery  about  her." 

As  he  spoke,  Mohammad  Ali  laid  down  the  field-glass  with  a  cry  of 
surprise.  '*  The  man's  ill,"  he  cried  ;  deadly  ill.  He  looks  almost  as 
if  he  were  dying.     He  cuu  hardly  hold  himself  up  on  tha  daok.    Pull 


THB  DEVlL'a  DIIL  11 

Mongside,  quiok,  will  you  ?    There,  that'll  do.     SeametOy  ahoy  t  ahoy  I 
ikhoy,  there  I " 

The  one  occupant  of  the  deserted  yacht  flung  up  his  hands  with  a 
wild  shout,  and  let  go  at  once  both  sheet  and  tiller.  **  Ahoy  I  ahoy  1 
ahoy  1  "  he  answered,  in  a  hollow  voice,  with  convulsive  eagerness. 

**  What's  up  ?  "  Mohammad  AH  shouted,  between  his  hands. 

"  Hold  oflf,"  the  stranger  hailed  back,  in  a  terrible  tone  of  tremulous 
warning,  his  hands  held  open  deprecatingly  before  him.  "Cholera  1 
cholera  1" 

At  the  sound  of  that  awful  and  dreaded  word,  the  two  fishermen 
dropped  their  oars  at  once,  as  if  by  magic,  and  let  the  boat  float  idly 
of  herself  upon  the  glassy  water.  *'  The  Lord  preserve  us  1  "  one  of 
them  murmured,  with  sudden  horror.  **  Stop  where  you  are  I  Not 
another  stroke  1  We  can't  go  near  her  1  Wo  mustn't  go  near 
her  1 " 

"Go  on  !"  Mohammad  Ali  cried,  in  a  tone  of  command.  "The 
man's  dying.  We  can't  atop  here.  If  you  don't  go  on,  you'll  b«  too 
late  to  save  him." 

"  Not  another  stroke,"  the  first  fisherman  answered,  doggedly. 

"  You're  a  coward,"  the  Indian  cried,  seizing  the  oar,  with  a  sudden 
bunt  of  fiery  indignation,  and  showing  his  pearl-white  teeth  like  a  dog 
in  the  heat  of  his  anger.  "  Come  along,  Harry.  Take  the  oars  from 
them,  quick,  will  you.  We  must  pull  alongside  and  help  this  poor 
fellow.  Coward,  I  say  1  Cowards,  both  of  you  1  I  never  knew  before 
that  seafaring  men  couPi  be  so  cowardly. " 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  the  worst  storm  that  ever  blew  out  of  God's 
heaven,"  the  fisherman  answered,  holding  tight  to  his  oar  and  disputing 
its  possession  ;  "  but  hang  me  if  I'm  ever  going  for  you  or  for  no  maA 
to  bring  the  cholera  home  to  Polperran." 

Mohammad  Ali  glanced  at  him  hard  with  unconcealed  scorn.  "My 
friend,"  he  said,  "we  two  are  doctors.  We're  no  more  afraid  of  the 
cholera,  we  two,  than  you're  afraid  of  a  bit  of  a  lighr.  sou'-wester.  la 
this  the  bravery  you  Englishmen  boast  of  1  What  would  you  do  if  we 
doctors  were  to  shirk  danger  as  you  do  ?  It's  our  w<»rk  and  our  duty 
to  face  the  cholera,  and  got  the  better  of  it,  as  it's  your  work  and  your 
duty  to  faco  and  outlive  the  very  fiercest  hurricane  that  ever  rode  on 
the  angry  Atlantic.  Pull  us  alongside,  I  tell  you,  at  once,  or  let  us 
pull  ourselves  if  you're  afraid  of  it.  I'm  not  going  to  run  away  from 
danger  now  like  a  cowardly  deserter." 

"You  may  do  as  you  like  with  the  cholera  yourself,"  the  fisherman 
answered,  still  grasping  the  oar.  "  Of  course,  it's  your  business.  But 
me  and  my  mate  '11  have  nothing  to  say  to  it,  so  that's  flat,  and  you 
may  as  well  be  satisfied." 

He  spoke  firmly,  with  the  dogged  obstinacy  of  the  Cornish  race 
showing  strong  in  his  voice  and  manner,  and  Mohammad  Ali  felt  at 
once  it  was  no  use  parleying  further  with  him.  Quick  as  lightning  the 
sinuous  young  Indian  stood  up  in  the  stern  and  shouted  once  more  to 
the  death-like  figure  in  the  Seamew  opposite. 

**  How  many  on  board  1 "  he  cried,  with  a  loud  cry. 


/IS  THB   devil's   DTE 

"Only  one  more,"  the  stranger  answered  with  a  terrible  effort. 
"And  he's  dying." 

"  Where  ?^' 

"On  deck  here." 

"And  the  rest?"  '        '* 

"  All  dead.  Owner  and  eight  hands  of  them.  Cholera  broke  out 
on  board  the  third  day  out  from  Santander.  I've  navigated  the  yacht 
myself  alone  since  yesterday  morning.  Send  out  a  doctor  as  quick  as 
you  can  to  save  the  boy  here."  / 

Mohammad  All  answered  nothing.  He  did  not  hesitate  for  a  singl* 
son  md.  Swift  as  thought,  he  pulled  oflF  his  coat,  flung  it  into  the  stern, 
JMiiped  on  to  the  thwart,  raised  his  hands  together  high  above  his 
li.  ad,  and  plunged  forthwith,  like  a  practised  diver  as  he  was,  into  the 
t.ilm  and  placid  water  below.  A  few  dozen  strokes  brought  him  fairly 
silongside.  for  he  breasted  the  sea  with  powerful  arms,  and  swam  ahead 
\\  ith  all  the  fierce  and  eager  energy  of  a  sudden  resolution.  The  man 
on  the  yacht  crawled  feebly  to  the  ship's  side,  fastened  a  rope  with 
t lembling  fingers  to  a  brass  peg,  and  threw  it  over  towards  the  Indian 
<iiM3tor  with  an  evident  eflfort.  Mohammad  Ali  caught  it  lightly  as  it 
fell,  and  hauled  himself  up,  hand  over  hand,  with  Eastern  agility,  till 
he  stood  at  last,  erect  and  dripping,  but  tall  and  straight  as  ever,  on 
the  deck  of  the  Seamew.  As  he  did  so,  the  stranger  flung  himself 
down,  tottering  and  faint,  upon  the  deck,  and  pointing  with  his  blood- 
less fingers  to  a  huddled  figure  close  to  the  mast,  cried  aloud  with  a 
voice  of  terrible  entreaty,  ''Send  out  a  doctor  to  save  the  boy^  can 
you?" 

**Fm  a  doctor  myself,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  laying  his  hand 
gently  on  the  stranger's  shoulder  with  quick  perception  of  the  situation. 
"  There's  hope  yet.  Don't  despair.  Harry,  ahoy,  there  1  Row  back 
with  those  two  cowards  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  get  some  better  men 
than  them  to  come  aboard  and  take  charge  of  these  poor  sick  fellows. 
I'll  bring  the  yacht  in  round  the  headland  there  as  well  as  I'm  able, 
and  drop  anchor  ofl!"  the  point  till  you  come  back  to  me." 

'•  All  riglit,''  Barry  Chichele  answered  from  the  boat,   with  profea- 
siiinal  coolness.     *'  You'll  stop  aboard,  then,  till  I  come  again.     la  it 
really  cholera  ?  " 
* '  Yes  ;  it's  cholera.     Asiatic  cholera. " 

'*  How  very  interesting,"  Harry  Chichele  murmured  calmly  to  him- 
self. "  Now  we  shall  have  a  good  chance  of  watching  the  development 
of  the  disease  properly." 

"  Row  back  at  once  I  "  the  Indian  shouted  aloud  once  more  from  the 
yacht.  "There's  no  time  to  be  lost.  Row  back,  I  say,  and  bring  out 
H  medicine  chest  and  some  proper  food  for  them.  And,  by  the  way, 
you  may  bring  mo  some  dry  things  at  the  same  time,  for  these  aron't 
quite  the  kind  of  clothes  to  nurse  a  sick  man  in." 

Harry  Chichele  nodded  assent,  and  gave  a  sign  to  go  to  the  two 
tishermen.  The  men,  nothing  loth  to  leave  that  poisoned  neighbourw 
I ')od,  laated  themselves  once  more  gladly  upon  the  thwarts,  and  rowa4 
With  long  slrokai  for  tha  ahora  bj  the  Cuva  of  Polparrao. 


VRB  DETIL'l  BU.  IS' 

A  European  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  placed  ia  sudb  an  appalling 

position  would  have  found  himself  immensely  incommoded  and  weighed 
down  by  his  dripping  garments.  But  Mohammad  All,  in  spite  of  his 
English  education  and  culture,  still  remained  at  heart  an  In£an  of  the 
Indians.  Without  a  moments  hesitation  he  stripped  of  his  wet  dothea 
with  incredible  speed,  wound  the  yacht's  flag  round  his  body  like  a 
native  loin-cloth,  and  stood  forth  in  the  blazing  sunlight  in  another 
minute,  just  the  ordinary  Indian  Mohammedan  gentleman  in  the  simple 
undress  of  his  own  compound.  The  transformation  took  but  a  few 
seconds  to  produce,  but  at  the  end  it  was  complete  and  perfect :  he 
had  gone  back  at  a  stroke  from  the  coast  of  Cornwall  to  the  blazing  sun- ' 
shine  of  the  North-West  Proviftices. 

Meanwhile  the  yacht,  now  left  to  herself,  with  her  one  canvas  hardly 
flapping  in  the  still  air,  and  her  rudder  swaying  at  its  own  free  wiU 
with  the  vague  current,  had  drifted  idly  along  towards  the  headland  ; 
for  the  one  man  who  alone  remained  capable  of  guiding  her  course  had 
collapsed  at  once  the  moment  Mohammad  touched  the  deck.  The 
young  Indian  seized  the  sheet  as  soon  as  his  metamorphosis  was  fairly 
concluded,  and  made  it  fast  to  a  peg  on  the  gunwale.  Then  he  took 
the  tiller  and  steered  for  the  lee  of  the  jutting  headland,  where  two 
minutes  later  he  dropped  anchor  in  clear  green  water  with  a  firm 
bottom. 

Then  for  the  first  time  since  he  came  on  board  he  was  able  to  devote 
himself  to  his  strange  patients. 

He  did  not  trouble  the  man  at  first  with  questions.  He  waa  far  too 
skilled  a  nurse  for  that.  Without  a  single  word  he  went  down  calmly 
into  the  stifling  little  cabin,  still  heavy  with  the  terrible  fumes  of  dis- 
ease, and  brought  up  one  by  one  the  bedding  and  pillows  from  two  of 
the  bunks,  with  a  few  sheets,  rugs,  and  blankets.  He  laid  them  down 
on  deck  with  deft  and  careful  hands,  arranged  them  all  aa  neatlv  as  in 
a  hospital,  and  stretched  above  the  top  of  the  two  beds  thus  nastily 
prepared  a  sort  of  tent  or  awning,  improvised  off-hand  with  a  square  of 
canvas  and  a  couple  of  marlines-spikes.  That  done,  he  proceeded  with 
a  woman's  gentleness  to  loosen  the  clothes  of  both  his  patients,  and  lift 
them  tenderly  in  his  arms  to  the  beds  prepared  for  them.  It  was,  in 
fact,  a  little  hastily-made  out-door  hospital ;  and  the  Indian  doctor 
arranged  it  all  as  methodically  and  quietly  in  his  single-handed  state  aa 
if  he  had  had  the  usual  army  of  nurses  and  dressers  all  waiting  obie- 
quious  for  his  merest  wave  or  nod  of  suggestion. 

It  was  not  until  his  patients  were  both  safely  housed  in  their  rough 
tents  that  Mohammad  Ali  turned  at  last  to  examine  more  closely  the 
oases  which  a  strange  caprice  of  chance  had  thus  handed  over  to  hia 
ministering  c&re.  The  elder  of  the  two  strangers  was  a  tall  young  man, 
handsome  and  gentlemanly,  so  far  as  one  could  judge  in  his  present 
condition,  but  with  a  keen  sunken  face  through  which  the  sharp  bonea 
already  peeped,  and  deep-set  eyes  worn  out  and  wasted  by  long  anxiety 
and  sleepless  watching.  Mohammad  Ali  knelt  over  him  in  silence,  and 
■canned  closely  his  muuth  and  twitching  nostrils.  The  young  man, 
opening  his  eyes  for  a  second,  seized  the  dark  hand  in  a  pfuiiotTwyour 


14  THB  DBYIL'S   DIS. 

of  unapoken  gratitude.  He  could  not  utter  a  single  word — his  strength 
at  last  had  failed  hirn — but  he  pointed  with  a  spasmodic  effort  of  nia 
lean  arm  toward  the  pale  and  insensible  boy  at  his  side. 

The  Indian  soothed  his  wasted  hand  tenderly,  and  turned  to  the  boy 
with  a  desponding  gesture.  He  raised  the  lad's  head  a  little  on  th« 
pillow,  just  to  ease  his  companion's  mind — for  he  saw  at  once  that  that 
case  was  hopeless — and  then  went  back  again  with  a  sympathetic  face 
to  the  elder  patient.  He  drew  bac' .  the  hair  from  his  high  forehead 
I  with  a  delicate  touch,  and  laid  his  own  cold  hand  upon  the  burning 
brow.  Then  he  looked  at  the  young  man  steadily  for  a  moment,  and 
whispered  in  a  low  distinct  voice,  "  How  long  since  you  left  San- 
tander  ? " 

The  patient  moistened  his  parched  lips  to  reply,  and  raised  his  head  ; 
but  the  words  seemed  somehow  to  stick  in  his  throat.  At  last  he 
managed  to  gasp  out  in  a  weak  whisper,  "  Three  weeks  ago." 

**  And  the  dead  ?  "  Mohammad  Ali  asked  softly. 

•'Threw  them  overboard." 

"Good,"  the  Indian  replied  with  a  satisfied  nod.  "You  did  well. 
That's  right,  anyhow.  You  shall  be  properly  nursed.  We'll  pull  you 
through  yet,  my  friend  and  I,  with  the  help  of  Allah,  the  All-wise,  the 
AU-Merciful  One." 

The  young  man's  hand  dropped  listlessly  upon  the  hard  pillow. 
Mohammad  Ali  seated  himself,  cross-legged,  beside  him  on  the  deck. 
His  native  habits  seemed  to  return  at  once  with  that  simple  unencumber- 
ing  native  dress.  He  fanned  the  sufferer  gently  with  his  hand.  For  a 
long  while  he  sat  and  watched  in  unbroken  silence.  Both  the  patients, 
relieved  by  the  change  and  the  loosening  of  their  clothes,  seemed  half 
to  drop  into  the  drowsy  condition. 

After  a  while,  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice  again.  "Yourname?"he 
asked  simply,  as  the  patient  opened  his  eyes  for  a  moment. 

**  Ivan  Royle,"  the  young  man  answered,  as  in  a  dream. 

The  Indian  bowed  his  head  and  said  nothing.  He  only  shaded  his 
eyes  with  bis  hand  from  the  glare  of  the  sun,  and  gazed  across  the 
unruffled  expanse  of  sea  towards  the  Cove  of  Polperran,  on  the  eager 
look-out  for  Harry  Chichele's  expected  arrival. 

**  I  hope  he'll  remember  to  bring  fresh  water,"  he  murmured,  half  to 
himself.  '*  The  water  on  board  must  all  be  horribly  infected  by  thiff 
time.  I  hope  he'll  remember  to  bring  everything.  But,  thank  good- 
ness, Harry  has  a  clear  head.  We  need  it,  too,  with  a  case  like  this  on 
hand.    Bat  we'll  pull  him  through  Btill,  with  the  help  of  Allah." 


TBI  deyil'b  dul  19 


CHAPTER  in. 

Fob  full  two  hours  the  Indian  doctor  sat,  oross-leggedf  on  the  yacht's 
deck,  under  the  awning  of  his  improvised  tent,  closely  watching  the 
pinched  faces  of  his  two  new  and  unknown  patients.  He  sat  there  aJl 
the  time  with  the  true  East  Indian  cat-like  patience,  fanning  their  faces 
alternately  with  his  hands,  and  listening  eagerly  for  the  dip  of  oars 
upon  the  distant  water.  At  last,  a  faint  plash  from  beyond  the  second 
headland  seemed  to  fall  upon  his  quick  senses.  He  stood  up,  put  hia 
open  palm,  shell-shaped,  to  his  ear,  and  strained  his  hearing  to  its 
atmost  pitch  of  absorbed  attention.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  the  plash  of  oars, 
undoubtedly.  Haxry  Ghichele  must  be  coming,  at  length,  to  aid  and 
relieve  him. 

The  plash  of  oars  grew  nearer  and  nearer,  and  men's  voices  could  be 
distinctly  heard  round  the  sharp  corner  of  the  granite  headland. 
Presently,  they  turned  the  point  of  serpentine  rock,  and  emerged,  at 
last,  into  full  view.  There  were  two  boats,  one  behind  the  other.  In 
the  first  sat  four  stout  Cornish  fishermen.  In  the  second,  towed  behind 
it  by  a  rope,  Harry  Ghichele  was  seated  alone,  in  solemn  silence. 

The  boats  drew  up  about  two  hundred  yards  from  the  yacht's  moor- 
ings. Then  the  men  leaned  upon  their  oars,  and  threw  off  the  rope 
with  which  they  were  towing  Harry  Ghichele.  Harry  had  a  pair  of  light 
sculls  in  his  own  boat.  With  them  he  rowed  himself  hastily  alongside, 
and  Mohammad  Ali,  leaning  over  the  gunwale,  flung  out  a  hawser,  and 
hauled  him  on  board.  They  made  the  small  boat  fast,  in  silence,  to 
the  stern.  Then  the  four  fishermen  waved  them  adieu  once  more  with 
their  hands,  and  glided  away  in  hot  haste  from  the  infected  purlieus, 
leaving  those  two  once  more  alone,  and  face  to  face  with  the  deadly 
pestilence. 

Mohammad  All's  lip  curled  as  before  with  inexpressible  contempt  aa 
he  gazed  back  upon  the  retreating  boat's  orew.  *'  These  fellows  were 
afraid  for  their  own  skins,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  with  a  scornful  gesture, 
as  he  turned  away.  *'  Wouldn't  come  within  half  a  mile  of  the  danger 
of  infection  !  " 

*'  No,"  Harry  Ghichele  answered,  still  making  fast  the  ropes,  and 
.  pulling  in  his  belongings  from  the  small  boat.  '*  Not  a  soul  could  I  get 
to  come  aboard.  If  you  want  to  see  what  cowards  men  can  bo  upon 
occasion,  just  ask  them  to  face  an  unknown  epidemic.  Most  men  are 
brave  enough  in  the  presence  of  a  danger  that  you  can  fight  to  the  fiM 
with  i<hewB  and  musclos  and  active  energy  ;  but  when  it  comes  to  a 
danger  that  you  have  to  oppose  passively  and  unresistingly,  the  best  ol 
them  will  back  out  of  it  as  gracefully  as  possible.  We  medical  men  are 
the  only  ones  who  will  take  a  risk  of  this  sort  upon  ounelrw  without  • 
-  moment's  hesitation." 


1$  THB  DKVIL's  DIS.  / 

*'  Nobody  would  come  ?  "  ' 

"  No,  nobody.  The  whole  village  is  simply  mad  with  terror.  Th^b 
is  to  say,  nobody,  except  Miss  Tregellas,  the  rector's  daughter.  She 
volunteered  to  come  and  help  us  nurse — she's  been  trained  in  one  of 
these  local  institutions,  I  fancy — but  as  there  was  no  other  woman  will- 
ing to  chance  it,  of  course,  her  father  couldn't  allow  her  to  come  aboard 
with  us." 

"  What  have  you  done,  then,  and  what  do  you  propose  doing  ?  " 

**  Oh,  I  just  telegraphed  up  to  the  authorities  at  Falmouth,  asking 
them  if  they  could  send  us  a  couple  of  men  to  take  the  yacht  round  into 
Falmouth  Harbour  for  the  necessary  quarantine,  and,  meanwhile,  if 
they  don't  hurry,  1  propose  we  should  lie  by  here  for  to-night ;  we're 
pretty  well  under  shelter  where  we  are,  and,  unless  the  wind  rises, 
which  doesn't  seem  likely,  we  ought  to  manage  very  well  till  morning." 

*'  You've  brought  water  ? " 

*'  Yes.     Water,  medicines,  food,  and  disinfectants." 

**  That's  well.  Now  we  must  get  to  work  in  earnest.  One  of  the 
cases  is  already  in  collapse,  the  other  may  be  saved  if  we  take  it  in  hand 
systematically  and  promptly." 

Without  wasting  another  minute  on  talk,  the  doctors  went  silently 
and  quietly  to  work,  and  soon  had  treated  both  their  patients  with  all 
the  care  modern  science  has  been  able  to  suggest.  They  kept  them  still 
bivouacked  on  the  open  deck — that  was  far  better  than  the  stuflFy  little 
cabin — and  there  they  tended  them  with  ceaseless  attention  till  noon 
was  passed,  and  evening  began  to  draw  in  upon  them.  Harry  had 
brought  provisions  in  the  boat,  and  fresh  clothes  for  Mohammad  All. 
But  it  was  not  till  the  heat  of  the  day  was  fairly  past  that  the  Indian 
consented  to  put  them  on  and  give  up  the  freedom  of  his  simple 
costume. 

By  five  o'clock  they  had  made  themselves  quite  at  home  upon  the 
yacht,  and  had  even  brewed  themselves  a  cup  of  tea,  with  water  from 
the  cask  Harry  brought  with  him.  The  evening  was  warm,  though  a 
slight  breeze  had  now  risen,  and,  after  a  short  consultation,  they  both 
decided  it  would  be  better  to  leave  their  patients  on  deck  than  entrust 
them  to  the  mercies  of  the  stuffy  little  cabin. 

All  through  the  evening  they  sat  and  watched,  talking  in  a  low  tone 
one  to  the  other,  and  attending  to  the  many  wants  of  their  charges. 
The  boy,  as  Mohammad  Ali  had  perceived  from  the  first,  was  slowly 
sinking  ;  but  the  man  Royle,  revived  by  the  powerful  medicines  Harry 
had  brought,  showed  signs  of  throwing  off  the  poison  of  the  disease. 
And  as  they  sat  and  talked,  the  breeze  grew  gradually  fresher  and 
fresher,  and  the  yacht  began  to  sway  about,  with  %  long  swinging 
motion,  on  the  loppy  surface. 

"  Good  thing  for  the  patients,  this  nice  cool  wind,"  Mahammad  Ali 
observed  complacently.  **  But  I  hope  it  won't  get  up  much  stronger 
before  morning,  for  it's  veered  around  to  the  east,  I  see,  and  we're 
lying  here  off  a  lee  shore  now.  It'd  be  awkward  if  it  were  to  come  on 
to  blow  hard.     We  neither  of  us  know  much  about  yachting." 

^*0h,  au  fear,"  Hariy  Ghichele  answered,  in  au  uuooucemed  tone. 


TBI  DBTIL%  DIS.     '  17. 

with  a  glance  to  windward.  '*  The  breeze  won't  riae,  and,  if  it  does,  I 
understand  enough  about  sailing  to  keep  the  Seametc  beating  about 
afloat  till  morning.  Tou  should  see  this  coast  in  a  good  stf^rm  ;  it's 
rust  magnificent.  I  wouldn't  like  a  blow,  though,  myself,  for  one  thing. 
These  are  two  very  interesting  cases.  You've  watched  cholera  before, 
of  course,  in  India,  so  it  doesn't  matter  very  much  to  you  ;  but  for  me 
this  is  a  rare  opportunity.  It'd  be  a  nuisance  to  have  the  cases  dis- 
turbed, and  be  prevented  from  seeing  them  out  to  their  full  conclusion. 
Now,  you  couldn't  possibly  have  two  nicer  or  more  typical  cases  than 
these ;  because  the  boy'U  die,  and  the  man,  I  expect,  will  pull  through 
somehow.  So,  if  nothing  untoward  intervenes  to  prevent  it,  I  shall 
have  a  splendid  chance  of  seeing  the  course  of  the  disease  in  both  direc- 
tions— dev\th  and  recovery. " 

The  Ind'an  looked  at  him  with  a  strange  and  doubtful  gleam  in  his 
large,  mild  eyes.  **  Harry,"  he  said,  "  you're  a  very  strange  fellow.  I 
never  saw  any  man  in  my  life  so  professional  as  you  are.  You  seem  to 
take  only  a  scientific  interest  in  all  your  patients  ;  you  never  regard 
them  for  a  moment,  it  seems  to  me,  as  objects  of  living  human  sympa* 
thy." 

Harry  laughed.  **  Medicine  is  medicine,  after  all,  my  dear  boy,"  he 
answered  lightly.  *'  One's  first  business  is  to  watch  one's  case  ;  and  I 
do  love  a  good  case.  I  don't  deny  it.  It's  an  acquired  taste,  but  it's 
necessary — it's  necessary.  Without  it,  we  could  have  no  true  science 
— nothing  but  a  sort  of  generous  and  unsatisfactoiy  sympathetic  guess- 
work." 

Mohammad  Ali  looked  at  him  and  mused.     **  Begum  Johanna  of 

Deoband,"  he  began  at  last 

"Oh,  bother  Begum  Johanna  of  Deoband,"  the  young  Englishman 
interrupted  hastily.  "  No  offence  meant  to  your  country,  Ali  ;  but 
this  is  hardly  the  moment,  I  take  it,  for  particulars  as  to  Begums,  past, 
present,  or  future." 

Mohammad  Ali  answered  nothing.  He  merely  stroked  his  medita- 
tive chin  in  silence,  very  much  Arab  fashion,  and  watched  his  English 
friend  again  with  close  attention.  *'  Your  grandfather.  Sir  Isaac  Chi- 
chele,"  he  began  once  more,  *'  when  he  was  governor  of  the  North- 
West  Provinces " 

But  before  he  could  get  any  further  with  his  sentencA,  Ivan  Royle, 
the  elder  of  their  two  unknown  patients,  raised  his  head  feebly  from 
his  pillow,  and,  in  a  parched  voice,  asked  querulously  for  a  drop  of 
water. 

Harry  rose  quick  and  light  at  once  to  fetch  it,  and  held  it  to  his  dry 
and  fevered  lips  with  care  and  patience  almost  equal  to  Mohammad 
All's  own.  The  grateful  light  shone  once  more  in  Royle's  sunken  eyes, 
and  he  muttered  "  Thank  you,"  with  a  fervent  earnestness  which  meani 
far  more  than  the  words  conveyed  of  heartfelt  gratitude. 

The  evening  was  now  closing  in  fast,  and  the  sea  was  risiD|^  every 
where  around  them.  It  was  indeed  a  strange  and  weird  situation. 
They  lay  alone  there,  two  landsmen  together,  in  sole  charge  of  thai 
pestilential  yaoht,  with  two  patients,  smitten  with  »  terribly  diieaaflb 


II  THK  DKYi'l'S  DIl. 

huddled  on  deck  helpless  before  them.  All  round,  the  sea  wm  begin* 
ning,  under  the  influence  of  light  and  fitful  gusts,  to  lop  and  shiver. 
White  crests  were  gathering  on  the  higher  waves.  In  front  stretched 
that  ironbound  Cornish  coast,  beset  with  crag  and  pillar  and  pinnacle, 
a  terror  to  far  more  experienced  seamen.  The  stars  came  out  one  by 
one  in  the  sky  overhead.  The  long  ligh^^s  glimmered  in  lines  across  the 
dancing  waves  from  the  houses  of  Polperran.  A  shrill  breeze  whistled 
now  and  again  through  the  bare  rigging.  Everything  spoke  of  solitude 
and  danger. 

•'  If  the  wind  goes  on  rising  like  this,"  Mohammad  Ali  murmured, 
as  he  fixed  a  light  unsteadily  to  the  foremast,  '*  we  shall  have  to  take 
them  downstairs  to  the  cabin,  or  she'll  be  shipping  seas,  and  they'll 
probably  get  a  fatal  wetting." 

"  It'll  be  hard  if  we  must,"  Harry  Chichele  answered,  balancing 
himself,  landsman-like,  on  the  rolling  deck  "  for  they  won't  have  half 
such  a  chance  below  as  they  have  up  here  in  the  full  fresh  air." 

On  shore  that  night  the  gossips  of  Polperran  sat  late,  discussing  the 
strange  yacht  in  the  little  roadside  village  public.  Sensations  were 
rare  indeed  at  Polperran.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  in  thick  November 
weather,  a  great  West  Indian  or  American  liner  lost  her  way  hopelessly 
among  the  bays  and  coves,  and  dashed  her  huge  bulk  to  pieces  at  last 
upon  the  solid  cliffs  of  those  grim  and  gloomy  granite  headlands.  But 
such  a  lurid  sensation  as  a  cholera  ship  standing  off  the  cove  itself  was 
quite  a  novelty  to  the  village  wiseacres  ;  and  they  sat  far  beyond  the 
legal  hours  (on  plea  of  public  necessity  constraining  them)  in  eager  con- 
davo  as  to  the  action  likely  to  be  taken  by  the  Falmouth  authorities. 

It  was  a  wild  night  on  the  English  Channel.  The  storm  came  on 
with  almost  tropical  rapidity.  All  through  the  evening  the  wind  kept 
rising  with  increasing  force,  till  at  last,  as  the  church  clock  of  Polperran 
tolled  out  eleven,  the  solitary  coastguardsman  turned  to  his  report- 
sheet,  and  marked  it  down  on  the  Admiralty  paper  as  *'  half  a  gale, ' 
with  official  accuracy.  A  minute  later  a  sudden  gust  burst  with  fierce 
violence  against  the  walls  of  his  shelter.  The  coastguardsman  toiled 
alone  up  the  dark  path — it  was  a  moonless  night — that  led  along  the 
brow  of  the  jagged  precipices,  marked  out  by  whitewashed  stones  at 
even  distances,  and  looked  anxiously  out  to  sea  for  signs  of  distresv 
from  any  passing  smack  or  schooner. 

"  Wonder  how  that  there  cholera  yacht  gets  on  through  this,"  he 
thought  to  himself,  as  he  neared  th  ?  crag  that  hemmed  in  the  bay 
where  the  Seamew  was  riding  alone  at  anchor.  "  Bad  weather  to-nighti 
on  a  lee  shore.  Hard  living  for  a  yacht  in  a  squall  like  this.  She's  got 
no  sea-room,  and  they're  raw  hands.  Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she 
dragged  her  anchor." 

He  hurried  on  with  blind  steps  to  the  summit  of  the  jutting  crag, 
and  carefully  approaching  the  steep  edge  of  that  tremendous  precipice, 
where  the  cliff  toppled  over  with  a  sheer  descent  into  six  hundred  fee* 
of  thick  darkness,  he  peered  cautiously  down  into  the  black  abyss  at 
his  feet  to  spy  out  the  whereabouts  of  ilie  suspicious  ISeomew. 

Doirr),  duvfii,  4i>wa,  yards  aud  yardjl  <iud  yardd  bttluw,  in  that  diz^ 


THS   devil's   DIB.  19 

black  chasm  that  yawned  beneath  him,  a  jingle  light,  fastened  at  a 
masthead,  swayed  and  tottered,  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  through  the 
gloom  and  mystery  of  that  tempestuous  evening.  The  coastguard  lay 
on  his  face  upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  gazed  over  in  horror  on  that 
fiolitary  gleam  cast  feebly  up  from  the  abysmal  darkness.  The  Seamew 
must  have  dragged  her  anchor,  indeed,  and  must  now  be  on 
*he  very  verge  of  dashing,  alone  and  unmanned  save  by  those 
fiwo  unskillful  landsmen,  against  the  naked  base  of  those  terrific 
)^recipices.  It  was  a  terrible  situation.  She  was  slowly  nearing  the 
^langerous  crags.  By  the  dim  light  of  the  single  lamp  he  could  even 
^ake  out  the  reflection  on  the  white  spray  that  broke  m  sheets  of 
'•eaten  foam  against  the  fierce  line  of  granite  barriers.  The  Seamew 
was  hardly  holding  off  at  all  ;  another  gust  must  surely  dash  her  against 
them,  and  grind  her  to  atoms  between  the  raging  waves  and  the  solid 
wall  of  uprearing  precipice. 

"  She  can't  hold  off,  no  matter  how  they  handle  her  1 "  the  coast- 
guardsman  cried  aloud  to  himself,  as  he  stumbled  back  into  the  path  by 
the  white-washed  landmarks,  and  hurried  down,  with  trembling  foot- 
steps,  to  the  cove  off  Polperran. 

Before  he  got  there,  the  wind,  swooping  down  upon  the  bay  from 
the  dales  and  valleys,  was  raving  wildly  upon  the  little  beach.  No  man 
at  Polperran  had  ever  beheld  such  a  night  before.  For  suddenness  and 
fierceness  the  onslaught  was  terrific  ;  the  full  fury  of  the  gale  had 
broken  forth  with  the  turn  of  the  tide,  and  nothing  now  could  save  the 
Seamew.  Even  if  the  most  experienced  hands  in  Polperran  had  man- 
ned her  that  night,  there  was  no  living,  on  a  lee  shore,  in  so  terrible  a 
tempest.  The  storm,  in  its  migh^,  could  have  lifted  her  up  and  dashed 
her  against  the  precipices,  as  a  child  might  dash  a  bottle  against  the 
wall.     It  was  all  up  with  the  dreaded  choler»  vessel. 

The  folk  at  the  public-house  rose  at  once,  as  the  coastguard  pushed 
his  white  face  in  at  the  door,  and  cried'  aloud  of  the  danger  to  the  Sea- 
mew.  One  moment  before,  the  gossips  of  Polperran  had  had  no 
thought,  save  how  to  keep  that  hateful  cholera  ship  at  a  safe  distance. 
But  with  the  first  breath  of  peril  from  the  sea,  the  seaman's  instinct 
rose  strong  and  irrepressible  within  them,  and  every  man  cried  with 
one  accord,  * '  Come  on  to  the  cove  !     We  must  launch  the  life  boat  1 " 

The  two  fishermen,  who  had  rowed  out  Harry  and  Mohammad  All 
that  morning,  were  the  first  to  rush  down  eagerly  to  the  shore,  and 
help  out  with  the  boat  on  her  mission  of  mercy.  The  others  followed 
in  hoi  haste,  and  pushed  the  big  craft,  creaking  and  groaning,  through 
the  roaring  surf,  that  now  beat  in  huge  breakers  upon  the  narow  cove 
and  its  guardian  headlands.  The  coxswain  stood  up  at  his  place  in  the 
stern,  the  crowd  on  shore  cheered  lustily,  and  the  lifeboat,  driven 
ahead  by  twenty  strong  arms,  ploughed  her  way,  baffled  and  dashed 
back,  with  stout  endurance  through  the  foam  and  spray  of  the  white- 
crested  billows. 

It  was  hard  work  to  round  the  first  headland  into  the  outer  bay, 
where  the  Seamew  that  morning  had  fixed  her  moorings.  The  wind 
dashed  the  lifeboat  wildly  towards  the  solitary  stacks  that  rose  in  tall 
pinnacles  from  the  end  of  the  point,  and  the  sea,  bursting  over  them 


so  THB  DEVIL'S  DIB. 

timo  and  again,  threatened  to  wash  the  rowers  bodily  from  their  seatc 
The  storm  took  the  very  breath  out  of  their  bodies.  But  those  stout 
Cornish  hearts  endured  for  all  that,  and  by  sheer  dint  of  thews  and 
muscles,  straining  and  labouring,  battled  the  fierce  fury  of  that  sudden 
gale,  till  thoy  almost  reached  the  stranded  side  of  the  now  drifting  and 
helpless  Seamew.  Every  man  nerved  his  arms  to  the  work,  and  every 
heart  on  shore  stood  still  with  awe,  as  the  two  lights  on  the  stormy 
water,  tossing  and  wavering  on  the  crest  of  the  spray,  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  one  to  the  other. 

Would  they  ever  reach  her  ?  Could  they  ever  lie  by  her  ?  Had  sh* 
not  got  too  far  among  the  breakers  ? 

At  last  in  the  deep  trough  of  the  long  swelling  wave,  the  lifeboat, 
taking  advantage  of  momentary  lull,  drove  herself  close  alongside,  and 
the  coxswain  rising  eager  in  his  place,  caught  hold  of  a  hawser,  flung 
out  to  him  with  all  the  mad  energy  of  despair  by  an  unseen  hand  on 
the  deck  of  the  Seamew. 

She  was  lying  close  under  the  black  rocks,  just  held  off  by  the  back- 
current  force  of  the  under-tow,  and  ready  in  one  moment  to  grate 
awfully  against  the  dark  stacks  that  rose  to  the  abyss  of  darkness  above. 
The  surf  was  hammering  and  pounding  against  her  sides ;  spray  and 
brine  blinded  their  oyes  ;  the  roar  of  the  breakers  deafened  their  ears. 
Boiling  and  seething  wildly  in  its  swirling  rage,  the  sea  seemed  ready 
to  swamp  and  founder  them. 

What  happened  in  the  next  five  minutes,  no  single  actor  in  that 
terrible  scene  could  ever  have  recovered.  A  wild  phantasmagoria  of 
foam  and  rocks  and  driven  water  floated  with  horrible  vividness  and 
reality  before  them.  A  fierce  wind  whistled  madly  through  the  torn 
and  tattered  rigging  of  the  yacht.  A  great  black  wall  of  rock  and  crag 
rose  ominous  in  front  to  the  dusky  vault  of  heaven  overhead.  Below, 
two  helpless  hulls  tossed  and  rolled  with  infinite  jars  and  shocks  and 
colliding  broadsides  one  against  the  other.  And  out  of  it  all,  dimly 
perceived,  and  but  half  realized,  two  dark  figures,  encircled  in  spray, 
loomed  uncertain  upon  the  heaving  and  groaning  deck  of  the  Seamew 
— two  dark  figures  etched  out  against  the  sky,  erect  and  strong, 
but  bearing  each  in  his  stout  arms  a  strange  burden,  wrapped  up  ii' 
swathes  of  muffling  bed-clothes.  How  they  ever  got  into  the  lifeboat 
nobody  knew.  These  great  critical  moments  of  our  lives  pass  too  fas^ 
and  absorb  our  inmost  energies  too  profoundly  to  be  ever  consciously 
recognised  or  perceived  by  us.  But  a  minute  later,  one  thing  was 
certain  ;  the  lifeboat  had  headed  around  once  more  through  the  bois- 
terous billows  for  Polperran  Cove,  four  strange  objects  cowered  and 
huddled  at  the  bottom  by  the  stem,  and  the  wreck  of  the  Seamew^  a 
helpless  derelict,  was  shivering  and  crashing  its  snapped  timbers  in  a 
mad  onslaught  against  the  iron  wall  of  those  gigantic  overhanging 
granite  precipices. 

They  heard  her  crash  against  the  crags  in  one  fierce  burst  of  assault* 
Even  above  the  roar  and  howling  of  wind  and  sea,  the  groans  of  her 
beams,  as  they  broke  short,  like  twigs,  grated  upon  their  ears.  Next 
moment,  they  saw  the  Seamew  no  more,  but  a  rushing  mass  of  irhite 
water  in  her  place,  and  a  black  wall  of  rock  beyond  it. 


tBll  DBTIL't  DUi  91 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Thb  lifeboat  made  her  way  back  more  easily  than  she  had  come,  for 
the  sea  was  running  high  towards  land,  and  carried  them  on  its  crest, 
with  a  rush  and  a  roar,  into  the  little  cove.  They  beached  her,  with  a 
run,  on  the  shelving  shingle,  and  then  disembai*\dd,  wet  and  cold, 
upon  the  solid  land,  amid  a  circling  crowd  of  sympathizing  and  eager 
men  and  women. 

All  Polperran  by  this  time,  indeed,  was  on  the  beach  to  receive  them. 
But  as  they  landed,  the  crowd  fell  back  awe-struck  to  right  and  left,  in 
the  dim  light  of  lamps  and  lanterns,  and  sidled  off  wider  and  wider  on 
either  hand  from  that  terrible  infection.  Even  the  men  from  the  life- 
boat themselves,  now  their  self-imposed  work  of  mercy  was  over,  slunk 
away  one  bj  1)ne,  appalled  at  the  danger,  from  the  four  passengers  of 
the  doomed  a'eamew.  To  be  sure,  while  the  task  of  rescuing  them  was 
still  to  be  done,  all  thought  of  contagion  had  been  banished  from  their 
minds ;  the  seaman's  spirit  had  nerved  and  inspired  them  ;  but  the 
moment  they  stood  once  more  on  dry  land,  face  to  face  with  the  fear  of 
pestilence,  their  natural  terror  reasserted  itself  afresh,  and  they  shrank 
away  from  those  four  plague-stricken  men,  till  at  last  Harry  Ghichele 
and  Mohammad  Ali  stood  alone,  with  their  unconscious  charges,  in  the 
midst  of  an  ever-v/idening  and  distant  ring  of  terrified  spectators. 

For  a  minute  or  two  an  awful  siler'ie,  save  for  the  roar  and  dash  of 
the  sea  upon  the  beach,  reigned  all  around.  Then  Harry  Ghichele, 
looking  about  upon  the  mute  white  faces  that  everywhere  surrounded 
him,  asked  in  a  simple,  slraightfoiward  voice,  *'  Where  can  we  take 
these  poor  people  ?  " 

The  crowd  of  fisherfolk  turned  one  to  another  in  eager  debate,  but 
nobody  volunteered  to  give  an  answer.  It  was  dear  that  not  a  soul  in 
Polperran  was  willing  to  take  in  the  dreaded  cholera  patients  to  his 
own  home.  They  might  die  on  the  beach  for  all  the  crowd  cared,  before 
any  man  out  of  charity  would  house  them. 

*'  Is  there  no  cottage-hospital  or  anything  of  the  sort  ?  "  Mohammad 
Ali  asked  impetuously. 

The  crowd  whispered  and  fidgeted  uneasily  again,  but  nobody  at- 
tempted to  suggest  a  reply. 

Harry  Ghichele  looked  around  him  with  a  puzzled  air.  '  *  What  on 
earth  are  we  to  do,  Ali  ?  "  he  exclaimed  at  last.  **  Thia  is  almost  aa 
bad  as  the  sea,  isn't  it  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  a  fresh  figure  glided  suddenly  through  the  closed  circle, 
and,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  came  up  to  his  side.  It  was  a  deli- 
oate  girl,  dressed  in  a  simple  dark  evening  dress  of  some  thin  material, 
with  a  garden  hat  confining  her  dark  hair,  and  a  pretty  white  Shetland 
VooUen  wrap  thrown  lightly  in  a  fold  around  her  (lender  neok  and 


• 


tS  YHI   DETIL's  DIl. 

shoulderi.  Her  bright  black  eyea  gleamed  like  diamonds  in  the  rayi 
of  the  lantern,  and  her  white  hand,  laid  with  feminine  pity  on  Ivan 
Royle,  as  he  lay  huddled  and  muffled  in  the  rugs  and  wrappings,  seemed 
small  and  beautiful  as  some  fairy's  in  a  fairy  tale.  Mohammad  All 
recognised  her  at  once.  It  was  the  girl  whom  Harry  had  pointed  out 
the  day  before  as  Miss  Tregellas,  the  rector's  daughter. 

"  They  must  come  to  the  rectory,  Dr.  Chichele,"  she  said  in  a  quiet, 
self-possessed  tone,  which  contrasted  well  with  the  slavish  terror  o- 
those  demoralized  fisherfolk.  *'  There's  nowhere  else  in  Polperran  you 
could  possibly  take  them.  We  can  make  them  comfortable  and  nurse 
them  there.     Bring  them  up  immediately." 

'*  My  dear  Olwen  1 "  her  father  cried,  hurrying  up  behind  her  ;  '*  to 
the  rectory  did  you  say  ?  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  take  them  there  1 
Consider  the  risks,  my  dear  •  consider  yourself  ;  consider  the  servants." 

The  girl  turned  to  him  with  the  same,  quiet,  unterrified  manner  as 
before.  "  It's  the  only  possible  place,  papa,"  she  answered  simply. 
**  There's  no  help  for  it.  We  can  isolate  them  there,  and  nowhere  else. 
Besides,  none  of  the  villagers  seem  willing  to  have  them.  There's 
no  time  to  bo  lost.  We  can't  leave  them  out  here  in  the  cold  any 
longer." 

*'  But,  my  dear,  for  your  own  sake '* 

*'  I  am  not  afraid,  papa.  I'd  rather  they  came  to  us.  There  would 
be  far  less  chance  of  its  spreading  to  the  village.  I'm  so  glad  we  hap- 
pened to  be  sitting  up  so  late  to-night. " 

**  But  Dr.  Chichele,  what  do  you  think  yourself  ?  Do  you  think  we 
aught  to  let  them  come  to  the  rectory  ? " 

*'  They  must  go  somewhere,  and  at  once,"  Harry  answered  stoutly  ; 
"  if  not,  they'll  die  here,  right  off,  of  cold  and  exposure,  if  they're  nofc 
dead  as  it  is  already.  In  common  humanity  you  must  take  them  in  ; 
and  if  nobody  else  will  give  them  shelter,  why,  as  clergyman  of  the 
parish -" 

Olwen  Tregellas  did  not  wait,  for  her  part,  to  argue  the  question. 
She  beckoned  to  one  of  the  fishermen  with  her  small  white  hand.  The 
man,  with  a  frightened  look  still  settled  on  his  face,  came  forward  a 
little  way  in  front  of  the  group,  and  then  stopped,  as  if  afraid  to 
approach  nearer.     "  What  do  you  want,  miss  ?  "  he  asked  uneasily. 

" The  hand-cart,"  Olwen  answered,  with  a  quiet  smile.  "Bring  it 
down  here  and  leave  it  there  at  the  side  immediately.  You  needn't 
come  nearer.  Let  nobody  else  expose  himself  to  the  infection.  We 
will  do  all  f  urselves.  We  must  try  to  confine  it  as  narrowly  as 
possible." 

The  man  turned  and  darted  off  at  full  speed  to  the  village.  **  I  see,** 
Mohammad  Ali  murmured  at  her  side,  *'  you  understand  how  to  deal 
with  such  cases." 

Olwen  looked  up  into  his  face  for  a  moment,  and  started  with  sur- 
prise at  the  sudden  apparition.  Till  that  moment  she  had  not  noticed 
his  presence.  The  dark  skin,  the  pearly  white  teeth,  the  black  eyes, 
with  their  light  setting,  all  for  the  time  took  away  her  breath.  Under 
tuch  peculiar  ciroumstances,  they  made  her  heart  beat  fast  for  a  leoond ; 


TttB  DKVIL'b  DIl.  St 

then,  with  a  little  shudder,  she  recollected  the  facts,  and  said  haatilj, 
**  I  beg  your  pardon.  1  didn't  somehow  remember  you  just  at  first. 
You're  Dr.  Ghichele's  friend,  of  course.  I  think  I  met  you  yesterday, 
coming  from  the  station." 

The  Indian  noticed  the  startled,  half-frightened  expression  on  her 
face,  and  shrank  back  into  himself,  as  a  man  of  colour  always  does  at 
the  evident  repugnance  of  whites,  and  especially  of  women,  to  his  com- 
plexion. "  My  name  is  Mohammad  Ali,"  he  said  somewhat  stiffly  ; 
ought  to  have  introduced  myself.  I'm  a  doctor,  too,  and  I've  beei. 
helping  Chichele  on  the  yacht  with  these  poor  patients  of  ours." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  Olwen  answered,  with  a  gentle,  reassuring  smile. 
**  I've  heard  all  about  you,  of  course  ;  the  whole  village  has  been  talk- 
ing of  nothing  else  all  day  but  your  wonderful  bravery.  Eveiybody 
says  it  was  so  splendid  of  you  to  swim  to  the  yacht,  and  try  to  save 
these  poor  people.  But  just  for  the  moment,  in  the  excitement  of 
the  landing,  your  know,  I  forgot  entirely  all  about  your  being " 

She  paused  embarrassed.  Mohammad  Ali,  with  oriental  quickness, 
supplied  the  rest.  *'  About  my  being  an  Asiatic,"  he  said  Cit  saved 
her  ingeniously  from  the  awkward  need  of  saying  "a  black  man  "). 
**  I  can  easily  understand.  But  here  comes  the  hand-cart.  Lay  them 
in  gently,  Harry  ;  so,  so.  Take  care."  And  he  whispered  something 
aside  in  his  ear.  It  was  not  till  after  they  reached  the  rectory  that 
Olwen  knew  one  of  the  burdens  they  lifted  so  gently  and  reverently 
into  the  cart  had  ceased  to  breathe  before  they  landed  from  the  tossing 
lifeboat. 

In  another  minute  they  started  on  their  way.  Harry  and  Mohammad 
Ali  pushed  the  cart ;  the  rector  and  his  daughter  walked  slowly  by  the 
side.  The  crowd  fell  back  to  right  and  left,  and  made  an  isle  for  them 
as  they  passed  up  in  solemn  procession  to  the  rector's  house. 

"  This  is  a  real  crisis,"  Harry  Chichele  said  in  a  low  voice  to  Olwen 
Tregellas,  as  they  went  along.  "  Much  depends  upon  our  care  and 
success.  If  we  can  isolate  this  case,  well  and  good.  If  not,  we  may 
have  upon  our  shoulders  the  full  responsibility  of  bringing  the  cholera 
in  force  to  England." 

"  We  will  do  our  best,"  the  girl  answered,  in  an  unfaltering  voice. 
*'  And  even  if  we  fail,  it'll  be  a  comfort  to  think,  you  know.  Dr.  Chi- 
chele, we  only  tried  to  do  what  we  thought  our  Auty." 

They  reached  at  last  the  rectory  gates,  and  turned  into  the  porch — a 
sweet,  low  porch,  thickly  draped,  Mohammad  Ali  observed  as  hu 
entered,  with  clambering  clematis  and  long  sprays  of  jasmine — and 
there  at  last,  with  infinite  care,  they  disembarked  their  ghastly  burden. 
The  white-faced  servants  who  opened  the  door  stood  aghast  at  Miss 
Olwen's  firm  and  quiet  order,  "Show  them  up  to  my  own  room,  and 
the  spare  bedroom."  But  they  were  too  much  overcome  with  terror 
and  surprise  to  offer  any  CiTective  remonstrance.  They  led  the  way 
without  a  single  word,  as  Harry  Chichele  and  Mohammad  Ali  carried 
up  Ivan  Royle,  half  conscious,  between  them,  to  Miss  Tregellaa's  own 
little  bedroom. 

That  done,  tha  young  men  descended   once  mor« ;  and  this  tunt| 


24  nn  Dinii'i  mm 

with  quieter  footsteps,  carried  up  a  senseless  burden  in  their  arma  to 
the  adjoining  room.  They  laid  the  boy  upon  the  bed  in  silence,  and 
sniooilied  his  limbs  with  decent  care.  *'  Poor  fellow,"  Muhammad  Ali 
said,  looking  at  the  lifeless  and  nameless  body,  tenderly,  "  I  wonder 
who  he  is  ?  He'll  need  no  more  nursing,  anyhow.  He's  well  out  of  ih 
all  early." 

Harry  tunied  to  go  down  once  more.  *'This  has  been  an  awful 
night,  Ali,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet  smile  ;  *'the  most  awful  night  I  ever 
rememi  er  ;  but  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  a  thousand  pounds.  I'm 
glad  we  got  them  safely  ashore.  Now  I  shall  be  able  to  make  researches 
on  my  own  account  upon  these  precious  germs.  I  wanted  to  try  inde- 
pendently of  Pasteur.  This  is  a  splendid  chance  ;  no  man  ever  had  a 
better.  Germs  1  Why,  I  can  have  whole  gallons  and  bucketsful  of 
them,  if  I  choose.     I  shall  simply  settle  the  entire  cholera  question." 

The  black  man  looked  at  him  once  more,  with  the  same  uneasy  glance 
as  once  before.  "  My  dear  Harry,"  he  said,  wearily,  "you  are  too 
much  of  an  enthusiast.  I  could  almost  wish  you  were  a  trifle  more 
human  and  a  trifle  less  absorbedly  scientlfio." 


CHAPTER  V. 

How  quickly  these  awful  memories  die  away  I  A  fortnight  later, 
the  little  world  of  Polperran  was  once  .more  plodding  its  familiar  round, 
exactly  as  though  the  ghastly  episode  of  that  fatal  cholera  ship  had 
never  flitted  across  the  horizon  of  its  sky,  to  disturb  the  wonted  quiet 
of  the  peaceful  fishing  village. 

Ivan  Royle's  convalescence,  too,  was  incredibly  rapid.  The 
removal  from  all  the  tainted  surroundings  of  the  Seamew^  the  shock  and 
surprise  of  that  sudden  night  adventure  in  the  lifeboat,  the  return  to 
fresh,  wholesome,  English  air,  and  the  breezy  coolness  of  those  free 
Cornish  moorlands,  soon  restored  him  to  a  health  and  vigour  that  would 
have  scorned  at  first  sight  utterly  impossible.  And  then  there  was 
Olwen  Tregellas's  careful  nursing  to  second  nature,  aided  by  the  con- 
stant and  friendly  attention  of  the  two  young  London  doctors.  They 
all  became  firm  friends  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  before  the  first  week 
was  well  out  felt  as  if  they  had  known  one  another  for  a  whole  lifetime. 
It  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  Ivan  progressed  favourably  and 
rapidly.  Long  before  the  fortnight's  seclusion  was  over,  he  looked  and 
felt  quite  himself  again,  after  that  short  and  sharp  attack  of  deadly 
in  n  ess. 

Indeed,  to  say  the  truth,  the  night  landing  from  the  Seameto  was  a 
heroic  remedy  of  the  kill-or-oure  order,  and  it  had  turned  out  rather  in 
favour  of  curing  than  of  killing.  The  cholera,  and  all  tb-'t  belonged  to 
it,  went  down  in  a  body  in  the  doomed  vessel,  and  Ivan  Royle  alon* 
«urviv^  to  tell  the  story  of  that  terrible  voyage. 


VBl  DBTIL'I  BIB. 

He  told  it  to  Olwen,  like  the  hideous  dream  that  it  was,  one  bright 
morning  in  that  sunny  bedroom,  with  the  pretty  orientil  cretonne  cov- 
erings, where  the  Banksia  roses  clambered  in  by  hundreds  at  the  open 
window,  and  the  trumpet  creeper  hung  in  long  flowery  sprays  from  the 
pointed  gables. 

He  had  set  out  on  the  Seamew^  so  Olwen  learned,  for  a  spring  cruise 
in  the  Mediterranean,  sketching — for  he  was  an  artist  by  trade,  he 
said,  of  some  repute  in  London  galleries — with  his  cousin  Mayne,  the 
owner  of  the  yacht,  and  Mayne's  fifteen-year-old  boy,  Theodore.  They 
three  made  up  the  entire  party — the  rest  were  the  crew — and  Theodore 
was  the  eldest  son — his  mother's  darling.  All  went  well  as  they  cruised 
and  sketched  round  the  JSgean  and  Sicily,  Algeria  and  Spain,  till  they 
turned  homeward  at  last,  with  the  warmer  weather,  into  the  open 
A-tlantic.  At  Santander,  where  no  cholera  was  known  to  exist  at  the 
time  they  called  there,  they  took  on  board  the  tainted  water  which  had 
proved  their  ruin.  The  barrel  containing  it  had  floated  ashore  on  the 
night  of  the  storm  from  the  wreck  of  the  SeameWy  and  Hariy  Chichele, 
examining  a  sample  under  the  microscope  with  his  usual  cool  scientifio 
precision,  had  found  it  simply  swarming  with  the  comma-shaped  cholera 
germs.  Mayne,  the  owner,  was  the  first  to  sicken,  and  after  him  the 
crew  gave  way  one  by  one,  till  at  last  Ivan  Royle  himself  was  left  alone 
on  board  to  navigate  the  yacht,  with  only  the  sick  boy  Theodore  for 
sole  companion. 

**  And  then,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  wide  open  and  his  pupils  dilated, 
*'  after  all  those  horrors  I  had  but  one  idea  left  in  mv  head— to  bring 
the  boy  safe  to  land  again,  I  gave  up  all  care  of  life  for  myself.  I  am 
almost  alone,  as  it  happens,  in  the  world — to  me,  to  live  or  to  die  i« 
nothing — but  Theodore  was  his  mother's  one  joy  and  delight.  I  drank 
as  little  of  the  poisoned  water  as  I  could — our  wines  and  spirits  had  all 
gone  long  ago — and  I  had  nothing  else  to  moisten  my  lips  with.  But 
I  wanted  to  escape  the  very  worst  till  I  saw  the  land  of  England  ahead, 
and  could  bring  the  boy  safe  into  harbour.  I  knew  I  must  fail  sooner 
or  later  ;  1  knew  the  horrible  thing  would  overtake  me  ;  but  I  hoped 
it  would  be  later  rather  than  eoonei,  for  the  boy's  sake,  and  for  hia 
sake  only.  I  hoped  I  could  keep  up  till  I  sighted  land,  and  then  I 
must  leave  him  in  the  hands  of  the  doctors.  I  would  have  been  amply 
satisfied  if  only  I  had  brought  him  in  alive,  and  fallen  myself  as  I 
reached  harbour." 

"And  how  long  were  you  alone?"  Olwen  asked  with  tremblinf 
lipa,  half  afraid  of  further  exciting  her  convalescent. 

*'  Twenty-four  hours  :  from  Tuesday  morning  till  Wednesday  morn- 
ing, when  we  reached  Polperran.  But  every  hour  was  a  whole  eternity. 
The  last  of  the  crew  died  on  Tuesday,  and  then  I  was  left  alone  with 
the  boy,  hopeless  and  helpless,  on  the  wide  Atlantic.  I  could  take  no 
observations.  All  day  and  all  night  we  steered  slowly  on,  the  faini 
breeze  hardly  filling  the  sail,  and  I  looked  out  for  land — looking,  look- 
ing, looking,  and  hoping — through  the  dark  hours,  expecting  every 
moment  to  see  the  Lizard  loom  up  at  last  on  our  port  bow.  Oh,  MiM 
TregellM,  it  was  too  terrible  I.  Every  moment  was  as  Jong  mi  a  Ijfn^o. 


Si  THI  DITIL'8  Dtl. 

Hoar  after  hour  the  night  wore  away,  and  the  day  dawned,  streak  by 
streak,  pale  and  faint  on  the  eastern  horizon  ;  and  1  strained  my  eyes 
for  the  land  of  Cornwall,  and  no  land  rose  upon  the  water.  And  there 
the  poor  boy  lay,  with  the  hand  of  death  heavy  upon  him,  and  not  a 
thing  could  I  do  for  him  but  pray  for  land,  with  the  remnant  of  the 
breeze  dying  away,  and  the  yacht  going  always  slower  and  slower.  I 
began  at  last  to  despair  cf  ever  bringing  him  to  shore  alive,  when  a  dim 
outline  seemed  to  show  itself  indistinctly  away  to  the  north  :  and  my 
heart  jumped,  and  I  steered  as  well  as  ever  I  could  for  the  cliffs  of  Pol- 
perran.  Even  then  it  was  an  endless  time  to  wait.  I  waved  my  hand- 
kerchief, tied  to  the  sheet,  and  tried  to  attract  some  fisherman's  notice. 
But  not  a  fisherman  hove  in  sight.  I  never  saw  Biscay  or  the  English 
Channel  f,o  utterly  deserted.  Never  a  boat  could  I  signal  anywhere, 
till  Chichele  and  his  friend  noticed  me  from  the  cliffs  and  hurried  down, 
and  that  dear  black  fellow  jumped  from  his  boat  and  swam  out  to  meet 
me,  like  the  man  he  is.  And  after  all  it  was  all  useless  I  It  was  too 
late  to  save  poor  Theodore  I  " 

**  But  we  mean  to  save  you,  at  least,"  Olwen  answered  gently,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  at  the  poor  fellow's  unavailing  earnestnesf* ;  "  so  we 
mustn't  allow  you  to  talk  any  more  and  over-excite  yourself." 

"Mel"  Ivan  Royle  answered  with  a  profound  sigh.  "Ah,  that's 
quite  different.  For  myself,  I  don't  mind.  But  that  poor  boy — that 
fresh  young  life — I  did  want  to  save  him  for  his  mother." 

As  he  spoke,  the  bedroom  door  opened  slowly,  and  Mohammad  All, 
noiseless  and  gentle  as  ever,  glided  with  oriental  quietness  into  the 
room. 

"It's  my  watch  now,  Miss  Tregellas,"  he  said  in  his  soft  low  tone, 
glancing  at  the  sofa  ;  "  and  I'm  afraid  this  wicked  patient  of  ours  has 
been  exciting  himself  again.  He's  convalescent,  but  he's  by  no  means 
well.     How  do  you  feel  now,  Royle  ?  " 

"  Wonderfully  better  since  that  last  mixture,"  Ivan  Royle  answered, 
as  his  pretty  nurse  went  off  relieved,  with  a  smile  of  farewell. 

The  Indian  nodded  a  pleased  nod,  and  assuming  for  a  second,  half  in 
jest  and  half  in  earnest,  the  familiar  Mussulman  attitude  of  devotion, 
murmured  aloud,  "  That's  well.  Allah  is  great,  and  the  man  of  science 
is  nowadays  his  prophet." 

Ivan  Royle  glanced  at  him  surprised.  "  Ali,"  he  said,  "you're  a 
eoM  fellow.  I  owe  you  much,  though  you  couldn't  save  poor  Theodore. 
But  you  did  your  best,  and  it  was  grand  of  you  to  come  out  as  you  did 
and  help  us,  I  didn't  know  your  people  were  so  good.  For  your  sake, 
I  shall  always  think  differently  in  future  of  your  countrymen." 

The  Mohammedan  sighed  a  deep-drawn  sigh.  "  Allah  is  great,"  he 
murmured  again,  .vith  a  bow  of  his  head,  "  and  the  universe  is  a  vast 
and  wonderful  mystery.  Why  on  earth  should  you  alone,  who  do  not 
value  your  own  liife,  be  preserved  out  of  all  that  living  shipload,  while 
all  the  rest,  who  clung  to  this  world  so  passionately,  no  doubt,  went 
down  at  once  before  the  angel  of  the  pestilence  ?  Your  life  must  have 
been  spared  to  you,  I  believe,  for  some  good  purpuse.  Otherwise  it 
wouldn't  have  been  so  fated.     Kismet,  kismet  1  thiore's  a  deal  of  trotb 


THB  DVTIL's  DIB.  S7 

■ftar  all,  you  know,  in  our  simplo  old-fashioned  orieiital  philoso- 


i> 


1*7 

**  A  philosophy  that  comes  in  the  end,  Ali,  merely  to  saying  things 
are,  on  the  whole,  rather  bad  and  utterly  inscrutable." 

*'  Exactly,  exactly,  my  dear  fellow.  I  don't  deny  it,  Nobody  re- 
cognizes it  more  than  I  do.  Pessimism,  pessimism,  pur  hopeless 
pessimism — pessimism  masquerading  as  a  belief  in  the  inscrutability  of 
the  infinite,  and  as  perfect  resignation  to  its  incomprehensible  wUl — 
pessimism  veiled  under  a  thin  theistic  disguise  by  attributing  everything 
directly  to  Allah,  who,  of  course,  is  always  inscrutable.  And  yet  it 
suits  us,  you  know  ;  it  suits  our  idiosyncrasy.  It's  hereditary,  I  sup- 
pose ;  everything's  hereditary.  We  are  all  just  what  our  fathers  made 
us.  Take  me  over  to  London,  and  cram  me,  and  educate  me,  and  fill 
me  full  with  assorted  facts,  and  arts,  and  sciences,  till  I  am  learned  in 
all  the  learning  of  the  Egyptians,  not  to  mention  the  Greeks,  Romans, 
Qermans,  French,  English,  and  other  miscellaneous  Europeans  generally 
— stuff  me  with  Mill  and  Spencer,  and  Comte  and  Hartmann,  and  Her- 
mann's physiology  :  and  yet  in  the  end  what  am  I  still  1  Why,  Mo- 
hammad Ali,  an  Arab  of  the  Arabs.  And  what  is  still  the  burden  of 
my  song  ?    Why,  Allah  is  great !    Kismet  1    Bismillah  ! " 

He  spoke  sadly  and  half  scornfully  of  himself,  yet  with  a  certain 
evident  undercurrent  of  pride  in  his  time-honoured  old  Arabian 
ancestry.  What  he  said,  however,  was  quite  true,  and  Ivan  Royle, 
after  a  week's  acquaintance,  at  once  recognized  its  truth  and  justice. 
With  all  his  acuteness,  and  gentleness,  and  ability,  Mohammad  Ali, 
after  swallowing  and  digesting  all  the  latest  ideas  of  all  the  western 
sciences  and  philosophies,  remained  still,  as  he  said,  in  his  heart  of 
hearts,  an  Arab  of  the  Arabs — pessimistic,  fatalist,  urbane,  chivalrous, 
acquiescent,  humane,  but  utterly  and  wholly  oriental  in  sentiment. 
Ivan  Royle — now  nearly  himself  again — looked  at  the  pensive  Indiau 
face,  half  in  admiration  and  half  in  pity,  a  few  seconds.  The  restless, 
energetic  Anglo-Saxon  mind,  with  its  eager,  forward  Aryan  impulse, 
can  hardly  fathom  the  calm,  restful,  uncomplaining  content  of  the 
oriental  spirit. 

"  You're  quite  right,  Ali,"  he  murmured  at  last ;  **  we're  all  of  us  at 
bottom  what  our  fathers  made  us.  The  new  philosophy  of  Darwin  and 
Haeckel  brings  us  back  pretty  much  to  the  old  philosophy  of  the 
Hebrew  preachers.  The  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  upon  the  child- 
ren indeed,  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation.  Determinism,  after 
all,  is  only  fatalism  the  other  way  on. " 

"The  fathers  have  oaten  sour  grapes,"  Mohammad  Ali  repeated 
solemnly,  "and  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on  edge.  I  know  a  terrible 
case  of  that  myself.  Begum  Johanna  of  Deoband  " — and  then  with  a 
start  he  checked  himself  suddenly.  Evidently  Begum  Johanna  was 
for  some  reason  or  other  running  in  his  head,  and  he  sadly  wanted  to 
disburden  himself,  but  refrained.  **  Royle,"  he  went  on,  in  an  altered 
tone,  ''it's  always  so,  you  know,  with  us  Easterns.  Time  makes  no 
difference  to  our  innate  philosophy.  Read  in  your  own  Bibles  your 
Book  of  Job  i  what  is  it  but  the  very  thought  and  creed  and  poetry  of 


M  THB  DITIL'B  DIS. 

modem  Islam  t  Kismet,  kismet.  Allah  is  great :  the  world  is  very 
full  of  evil,  but  we  cannot  fathom  it,  we  cannot  help  it  I  There  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun.  All  these  problems  existed  already,  and 
were  answered  in  just  the  same  fatalist  fashion,  three  thousand  years 
ago,  in  the  tents  of  the  sheikhs  and  ameers  of  Edom,  as  they  are  to-day 
ftt  Mecca  or  at  Agra.  Men  saw  that  all  things  were  very  evil,  and  they 
•aid  in  reply,  '  Allah  is  great ;  let  Him  alone,  it  is  His  doing  :  we  can- 
not understand  Him.'  As  your  own  Tennyson  despondently  puts  it — 
why,  he  might  almost  have  been  a  Moslem  himself — '  I  have  not  made 
the  world,  and  he  that  made  it  shall  guide.'  Isn't  that  just  pure  ori- 
entalism— the  philosophy  of  kismet  ?  And  yet  it's  strange  what  we  are 
to  be  in  life  should  depend  so  much,  not  upon  ourselves,  but  upon  the 
mere  accident  of  our  great-great-grandfathers  ! " 

"In  fact,"  Ivan  Royle  said,  somewhat  more  lightly,  "the  most 
important  question  after  all  in  a  man's  life  is  just  the  choice  he  makeb 
beforehand  of  a  proper  and  suitable  father  and  mother." 

"  True,"  the  Indian  replied,  gi-avely  smiling.  "I  wonder  what  Miss 
Tregellas's  mother  could  have  been  like  now  ?  An  angel,  I  should 
think,  to  judge  by  her  daughter.  But  there,  I  forget  myself.  I'm 
talking  now  like  a  born  Englishman,  without  remembering  the  great 
gulf  that  yawns  for  ever  and  ever  between  us."  And  he  relapsed  at 
onoe,  with  a  deep  sigh,  into  his  accustomed  oriental  gravity  of  silence. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

It  was  once  more  a  glorious  August  day,  and  the  joy  of  the  summer 
pulsed  full  and  free  in  Harry  Chichele's  bounding  veins.  He  sat  out  in 
a  garden  chair  under  the  big  lime  tree  on  the  rectory  lawn,  reading  a 
novel,  and  hearing  the  hum  of  the  myriad  bees,  busily  buzzing  among 
the  heavy-scented  flowers.  Ivan  Royle,  now  thoroughly  convalescent, 
sat  in  another  chair  beside  him,  and  sketched  at  his  leisure  a  dainty 
little  water-colour  of  the  rectory  porch,  with  its  clambering  growth  of 
clematis  and  jasmiiie.  They  had  all  taken  up  their  abode  there  for  the 
present,  so  as  to  isolate  the  case  till  the  fear  of  infection  was  well  over 

"  What  are  you  reading  1 "  Ivan  asked  at  last,  after  a  long  pause, 
putting  his  head  warily  on  one  side,  and  surveying  his  half-finished 
sketch  with  critical  approbation. 

"  Oh,  merely  a  novel,  *  Percival's  Tryst.'  I  suppose  you've  seen  it. 
It's  wonderfully  clever — so  weird  and  poetical. " 

"  *  Percival's  Tryst  1 '  "  Ivan  answered  with  a  start.  "  Why,  that's 
by  Seeta  Mayne  I  Seeta  Mayne's  a  cousin  of  my  own,  you  know.  She'i 
a  sister  of  Mayne,  who  owned  the  Seamew^  and  aunt  of  my  poor  boy 
Theo,  whom  you  buried  down  yonder." 

Harry  looked  up  at  him  with  an  appreciative  glance.  "  It  must  be 
a  great  j>rivilege/'  he  said,  seriously,  "  to  know  i^  wumau  like  Se#ta 


THE   DEYIL'b   DII.  S9 

Mayne.  She's  marvellously  able.  I  can't  say  how  much  I  admire  her 
work.  I  should  like  to  meet  her.  Is  she  personally  agreeable  ?  Is 
she  clever  in  talk  1    Is  she  handsome  or  ugly  ? " 

"  Oh,  well,  she's  handsome,  decidedly  handsome,  in  a  grand,  awful, 
commanding  sort  of  way,"  the  young  artist  answered,  still  touching  up 
his  picture.  "  And  she's  clever,  too.  Yes,  certainly  clever.  And  she's 
agreeable  as  well,  decidedly  agreeable — whenever  she  chooses.  But 
she  can't  hold  a  candle,  you  know,  in  any  way  to  our  Miss  Tregellas." 

He  said  it  proudly,  with  a  certain  manifest  air  of  proprietorship  in 
Olwen,  and  Harry  Chichele,  who  had  been  the  first  comer  of  the  three 
to  Polperran,  resented  it  accordingly.  He  looked  up  with  a  sudden 
flash  from  his  book.  The  two  men's  eyes  met  for  a  second,  and  each 
read  the  other's  secret  dimly.  But  men  are  reticent  to  one  another  on 
such  points.  Neither  spoke.  Each  looked  down  again  with  furtive 
haste,  and  continued  his  own  avocation  in  silence. 

A  minute  later,  Olwen  Tregellas  tripped  lightly  across  the  close- 
mown  lawn,  in  a  simple  morning  dress  and  hat,  and  moved  gracefully 
towards  her  two  visitors.  Ivan  glanced  at  her  with  artistic  approbation 
— her  every  movement  was  so  bright  and  fairy-like — and  made  a  mental 
note  of  her  tripping  step  for  future  use  in  an  imagined  picture.  She 
came  np  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  sketch.  **■  Oh  1  how 
lovely,"  she  cried  with  unfeigned  admiration.  "  What  a  delicate  touch 
you've  got,  Mr.  Royle  ;  and  how  exquisitely  you've  caught  the  spirit  of 
the  long,  lithe  curves  in  the  jasmine  I  " 

**  I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  Ivan  cried,  delighted.  *'  I  wanted  you  to  like 
it.     It  is  yours.     I'm  pleased  it  meets  its  owner's  approbation." 

*'  Mine  I  The  sketch  !  Oh,  how  awfullly  kind  of  you  I  I  never 
had  a  real  picture  of  my  own  in  my  life  before.  I  shall  prize  it  so 
much.     It's  really  too  good  of  you. " 

She  stood  long  praising  it  and  admiring  it,  and  Harry  Chichele  felt 
half  annoyed  at  the  fervour  of  the  thanks  she  gave  to  Ivan.  Who  was 
Ivan  that  he  should  thus  come  in,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  as  it  were, 
interloping  ?  He,  Harry,  and  he  alone,  had  discovered  Olwen.  What 
biisiness  had  any  other  fellow  thus  to  go  meddling,  without  his  leave, 
with  his  original  discovery  1 

By-and-by  Olwen  herself  turned  and  spoke  to  him.  "  I  came  out, 
Dr.  Chichele,"  she  said,  in  her  timid  little  way,  "  to  see  if  you  would 
care  to  take  a  stroll  on  the  cliflfs  with  me.  Papa  thinks  we  might 
venture  awav  from  the  grounds  now,  as  the  danger  is  practically  all 
over,  and  I  thought  you'd  like  a  blow  on  the  moorland." 

Harry's  face  flushed  up  with  pleasure,  and  he  felt  at  once  that  he  had 
more  than  distanced  that  interloping  Ivan.  ''  It  would  be  too  delight- 
ful," he  cried,  enchanted.  **  How  kind  of  you  to  ask  me.  I  wanted  a 
walk,  and  with  such  companionship " 

Olwen  blushed.      Harry   laid  down   his  book  with    his    sentence 

unflnished,  and  they  waved  a  friendly  farewell  to  Ivan,  who  was  still 

far  too  weak  to  dream  of  walking.     **  Royle  tells  nie  he's  a  cousin  of 

Seeta  Mayne's,"  Harry  began,  as  they  tunud  together  out  of  the  garden 

^fAtfs     **  I've  just  been  reading  '  I'lircival  s  Tryst,  you  know.     It's  f 


80  THB  DXTIL'a  DIB. 

wonderful  book.     And  it  seems  that  Seeta  Mayne's  a  c(\  isin  of  Royle'i, 
and  a  sister  of  the  p©or  fellow  who  owned  the  Seamew.* 

*'  How  nice  it  must  be  to  know  people  like  that,"  Olwe  cried  simply. 
"  And  how  nice  to  be  like  Seeta  Mayne  herself,  and  fie  \ble  to  write 
such  wonderful  novels.  Mr.  Royle  must  think  very  little,  ^f  us  quiet 
Cornish  folk  if  he's  accustomed  to  mixing  with  such  great,  cl(\  er,  accom- 
plished London  people." 

Harry  glanced  at  her  askance  with  an  almost  shy  and  frighte  ed  look. 
It  was  a  summer  day,  and  she  was  very  beautiful.  '*  One  star  differeth 
from  another  in  glory,"  he  ansiwered  simply.  "I  dare  say  Seeta 
Mayne's  awfully  clever,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing ;  but  she  can  hav  no 
good  ground,  whatever  she  may  be,  to  think  little  in  any  way  of  *  quv^t 
Cornish  people.'  " 

Olwen  toyed  with  her  light  parasol.  *' You  know  I  don't  care  for 
Seeta  Mayne,"  she  went  on  quickly,  as  if  to  glide  fast  over  the  thin  ice. 
"  She's  rather  too  much  up  in  the  clouds  for  me.  She  never  comes 
down  from  her  high  horse.  She  lives  in  a  world  too  grand,  and  gran- 
diose, and  noble,  and  ethereal  for  ordinary  humanity." 

"For  my  part,  I  admire  her  work  very  much,"  Harry  answered 
carelessly,  plucking  a  wayside  flower  and  pulling  it  idly  to  pieces  as  he 
went.  '*  But  1  can  easily  understand  that  ymt,  don't  care  for  her.  Miss 
Tregellas.  You  two  move  upon  such  different  planes.  Her  mind  deals 
wholly  with  an  ideal  world,  which  her  fancy  peoples  with  strange  and 
bright  and  glorious  creations.  Your  footsteps  rather  tread  this  solid 
earth  of  ours,  which  you  strive  to  make  better  and  happier  and  purer 
for  every  one  of  us.  Between  two  such  natures  there  is  a  certain  great 
gulf  fixed.  Yet  I  believe  I,  from  my  intermediate  masculine  stand- 
point, can.  admire  and  appreciate  and  understand  both  natures 
equally." 

"  Hers  is  the  highest,  though,  of  course,"  Olwen  murmured,  half 
self-consciously.  "  When  we  are  young,  we  always  love  to  hear  ourselves 
talked  about." 

*'  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  either,"  Harry  answered,  in  dubious  tones. 
"  You  remember  Wordsworth's  '  Phantom  of  Delight '  ?  I'm  not  cer- 
tain in  my  own  mind  that,  in  the  end,  the  '  creature  not  too  bright  and 
good  for  human  natures  daily  food  ',  doesn't  after  all  deserve  best  of 
humanity.  It  is  such  as  those  that  seem  always  brightest  to  me  '  with 
something  of  the  angel-light,'  as  Wordsworth  puts  it." 

They  wore  treading  dangerously  near  the  edge  of  a  precipice  now. 
When  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  begin  to  quote  poetry  together, 
the  end  is  usually  not  far  ofl".  But  they  fluttered  still,  like  a  pair  of 
eddying  moths,  about  the  edge  of  the  candle,  flitting  forever  round  and 
round  it,  and  trying  hard,  as  young  people  will  do,  to  go  as  near  the 
flame  as  possible  without  actually  singeing  their  wings  in  it. 

Soon  they  turned  out  upon  the  open  moorland.  "  How  glorious  the 
views  are  to-day  1 "  Harry  cried,  with  delight,  sniflBng  in  the  breath  of 
the  golden  gorse  and  the  fainter  perfume  of  the  large  Cornish  heather. 
'*  A  morning  like  this  makes  one  feel  the  meaning  of  the  joy  of  living! 
How  the  Moorland  smiles  at  us  from  a  thousand  faces  1     llow  delight- 


^  THx  devil's  dis.  31 

ful  it  is  to  come  among  so  many  old  friends  once  more  t  To  my  mind, 
there's  no  heath  on  earth  one  half  so  lovely  as  the  Cornish  heather." 

"  It  only  grows  for  a  few  miles  just  about  here,  you  know,"  01  wen 
cried,  delighted  at  the  London  doctor's  praise  of  their  local  product. 

*'  Yes  ;  Polperran  has  more  than  one  rare  flower  of  its  own,"  Harry 
answered  significantly,  with  a  side  glance  at  Olwen.  Then  he  feared 
he  had  gone  too  far.  He  stooped  and  picked  a  little  pinky-white  bell, 
the  autumnal  scilla,  to  divert  the  thread  of  talk.  "  What  a  sweet  little 
blossom,  this  one,"  he  cried,  admiring  it ;  "in  shape,  as  graceful  as  an 
Etruscan  vase  ;  in  colour,  as  beautiful  as— as  an  English  maiden.  I'm 
sure  I  can  say  nothing  prettier  than  that. " 

Olwen  pushed  the  brushes  aside  with  her  parasol  timidly.  "  Indeed," 
she  said,  "in  weather  like  this  the  world  is  very,  very  beautiful." 

Harry  smiled.  "  It  needs  no  Columbus,  Miss  Tregellas."  he  mut- 
tered, half  in  irony,  to  "discover  that  continent.  On  such  a  summer 
day,  I  come  out  of  town  and  go  into  the  world,  a  regular  optimist,  to 
find  it  everywhere  rich  and  glorious  with  varied  beauty.  The  play 
»9ems  to  be  in  full  swing,  and  we  have  front  seats  everywhere  reserved 
£or  us.  I  love  to  watch  it  all  as  it  works  itself  out — the  rabbits  twinkling 
oflF  in  haste  to  their  burrows  ;  the  larks  tossing  up  their  full  hearts  to 
the  sky  ;  the  very  worms,  and  bees,  and  beetles  all  quick  and 
instinct  with  the  joy  of  living.  The  world  wags  on  in  its  own  quaint 
way,  eating  and  drinking,  and  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,  by 
every  lane,  and  moor,  and  hedgerow  ;  and  I  love  to  see  it,  and  to 
feel  myself  one  with  it."  And  then,  with  the  young  blood  still  beating 
fuller  and  hotter  than  ever  in  his  veins,  he  flew  off  half  unconsciously 
into  that  vague,  high-flown,  poetical  talk  that  first  love  kindles  of  itself 
ki  every  one  of  us.  The  moorland  was  lovelier  than  its  wont  that 
morning,  and  Harry  knew  what  it  was  that  made  it  so.  He  talked  on, 
half  in  rapsody  and  half  in  seriousness,  of  everything  beautiful,  or 
grand,  or  exquisite  that  met  their  eyes  in  that  enchanted  fairyland. 
He  talked  of  the  birds,  and  the  beasts,  and  the  flowers  ;  he  talked  of 
the  ships,  and  the  bay,  and  the  ocean  ;  but  most  of  all  he  talked,  as 
young  people  always  do  talk  in  such  special  circumstances,  of  their  own 
tvK>  selves,  circling  round  and  round  that  delicious  central  question  for 
ever,  yet  never  quite  arriving  at  it. 

"  How  beautifully  you  put  things.  Dr.  Chichele,"  Olwen  cried  at  laat, 
admiring  him.     "  Nobody  else  ever  talks  as  you  do." 

Harry  smiled.  Her  incense  was  grateful  to  him,  He  recognized 
that  he  was  talking  better  than  himself.  He  didn't  know,  however, 
that  it  wasn't  he  who  was  putting  things  so  beautifully  that  cloudless 
morning  ;  but  the  hot  young  blood  and  the  summer  tide  within  him. 
At  such  times,  to  say  the  truth,  a  man  talks  better  than  his  own  nature. 
Harry  Chichele  knew  he  was  in  love  ;  but  he  didn't  also  know  that 
what  ho  called  love  was  just  one  half  selfish  self-admiration  only. 

They  had  reached  the  summit  of  a  seaward  rock,  looking  down  m 
the  bay  where  the  Seamew  had  foundered.  Olwen  rested  for  a  moment 
against  a  weathered  peak  of  bluff  rock,  by  the  side  of  a  profound  gorge 
out  out  in  the  lolid  granite  by  the  dashing  waves.     Below,  lay  a  great 


91  THE  DBVIL's  DIB. 

broken  precipice,  whose  dark  cliffB  of  hornblende  and  serpentine  were 
crumbled  above  by  wind  and  rain,  and  smoothed  beneath  by  the  cease- 
loss  dashing  of  the  winter  waves.  *'  See,"  Harry  cried,  pointing  down 
to  it  wilih  his  hand.  "  Up  to  the  limit  of  the  breakers  the  hard  rock 
shines  down  there  like  polished  Egyptian  syenite ;  but  beyond  that 
point  it's  all  fissured  by  frost,  and  air,  and  rain,  and  storm,  and 
covered  over  with  its  dappled  coat  of  grey  and  silvery  and  jeUow. 
lichen. " 

*'  It's  always  like  that  in  Cornwall,"  Olwen  answered,  looking  up  at 
him  timidly.     *'  You  see  it  so,  you  know,  in  Brett's  pictures." 

*'  Yes,"  Harry  went  on.     *'  1  know  it  i«  ;  T  know  it.    You  can  trace 
the  origin  of  all  these  lovely  little  Cornish  coves  from  small  rills,  ju^t 
like  this,  which  have  worn  themselves  gorge-like  valleys  through  the 
hard  rock,  or  else  from  fissures  which  finally  give  rise  to  sea  caves,  like 
the  one  where  Mohammad  Ali  and  I  rowed  this  morning  for  our  early 
Bwim  in  the  clear  green  vrater.     The  waves  penetrate  for  a  couple  c^ 
hundred  yards  into  the  bowels  of  the  rock,  hemmed  in  by  walls  a 
roofs  of  dark  serpentine,  with  interlacing  veins  of  green  and  red. 
last,  by  constant  dashing,  they  produce  a  blow-hole  at  the  top ;  and  the 
blow-hole  communicates  with  the  open  air  above  ;  either  because    ' 
fissure  crops  up  just  there  to  the  surface,  or  because  the  rain-water 
percolates  and  disintegrates  the  granite.     Then,  in  process  of  time,  the 
roof  falls  in  ;  the  boulders  get  washed  away  by  the  waves  ;  and  we  find 
in  the  end  a  long  and  narrow  cove  liko  yours  at  Polperran,  still  bounded 
on  either  side  by  tall  clififs,  whose  summits  the  air  and  rainfall  slowly 
wear  away  into  your  exquisite  and  fantastic  Cornish  pinnacles." 
I     *'But  what  makes  the  beautiful  little  islands,"  she  asked,  where  the 
gulls  and  cormorants  sit  alone  above  the  big  waves  upon  their  preci- 
pitous perches  ? "    She  longed  to  make  him  talk,  he  talked  so  wisely. 

**  Oh,  that's  just  the  slow  action  of  the  water,  still,"  Harry  answered 
airily;  "always  beating  against  the  solid  wall  of  crystalline  rock."  He 
paused  a  moment  and  glanced  idly  inland,  and  then  again  turned  hia 
eye  seaward.  "  Do  you  know.  Miss  Tregellas,"  he  began  once  more — 
it  had  trembled  on  his  lips  for  a  moment  to  call  her  Olwen,  but  he  re- 
frained for  the  time  being  out  of  pure  reverence — *'  I  like  to  think  that 
all  this  loveliness  has  been  produced  by  the  sea,  out  of  pure  accident,  on 
the  barren  moors  of  your  Cornish  uplands.  Nothing,  after  all — could 
be  flatter  or  more  desolate  than  the  level  waste  whose  seaward  escarp- 
ment gives  rise  to  all  your  romantic  coves  and  pyramidal  islets.  The 
wind  and  the  waves  carved  out  this  coast  into  varied  shapes  by  force  of 
blind  currents,  working  unseen  in  endless  play  on  hidden  veins  of 
harder  or  of  softer  crystal.  Isn't  there  some  force  like  that  at  work 
upon  our  owa  lives  somehow,  which  similarly  at  times  takes  all  the  dull 
prosaic  details  of  our  daily  existence  and  moulds  and  informs  them  with 
some  heavenly  glory  ?    Where  have  I  read  those  lines,  I  wonder— 

" '  Tha  white  and  common  daylight  Btreansing  through 
Some  rich  cathedral  window,  dim  with  saiut*. 
Falls  on  the  olaaped  hand  of  some  atony  knight 
Iii>  palpitotiiig  orimsou '  I " 


THl  DiCVIL's  DK.  88 

They  were  quirering  upon  the  very  ver^e  of  the  precipice  now, 
Olwen  prevented  the  fatal  plunge  once  more  by  a  momentary  silence, 
which  she  broke  by  saying  in  a  very  different  tone,  "  What  on  earth 
can  the  boys  be  doing  down  there  by  the  cove,  I  wonder  ? " 

"They're  throwing  stones  at  something  in  the  water,"  Harry 
answered  carelessly,  not  over-pleased  at  the  diversion  she  had  given  to 
their  talk.  "  Upon  my  word,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  believe  ifc 
niust  be  the  masts  of  the  Seamew." 

He  drew  his  little  field-glass  from  its  case  at  his  side,  and  focussed  11 
•traight  on  the  suspected  object.  "The  young  fiends  ! "  he  exclaimed 
at  last  angrily.  "  It  is  the /^^eamcw,  as  clear  as  day.  And  what  do  you 
think  those  little  brutes  are  doing  ?  The  masts  are  standing  up  above 
the  water's  edge  just  where  she  sank,  and  the  rats  have  clustered  on 
the  top  of  the  rigging,  and  these  young  wretches  are  positively  stoning 
the  poor  terrified  creatures.  How  needlessly  cruel ! — and  how  perfectly 
English  !  On  a  spring  morning,  the  French  always  declare,  your 
T  ^^lishman  rises  and  says  to  himself,  *  It's  a  fine  day  ;  let's  ail  go  out 

■C kill  something.'    As  you  and  I  are  walking  along  the  moor  hef 

iget*-'^«,  our  hearts  full  of  the  delight  of  summer,  and  sympathy  wiUi 
♦ti*^  beauts  and  birds  and  living  things,  discoursing  as  we  go  of  the  joy 
^ '  -kVing,  these  abominable  little  wretches  are  amusing  themselves  witii 
trjring  to  maim  the  terror-stricken  rats  who  are  clinging  for  dear  life  in 
their  last  despair  to  the  tops  of  the  rigging.  I've  been  too  near  drown- 
ing at  sea  myself  not  to  know  what  that  means.  A  doctor's  business  ii 
to  save  life.  We  must  go  down  at  once  and  save  these  poor  muttt 
fugitives." 

They  scrambled  down  the  steep  pathway  by  the  little  rill  to  the  white 
beach,  where  Harry's  boat,  which  he  hired  for  the  bathing,  lay  drawn 
up  on  the  sand  by  the  little  side  cove.  Harry  pushed  it  down  by  main 
force  to  the  sea,  and  rowed  with  the  hot  speed  of  fiery  indignation  to 
the  masts  of  the  Seamew,  just  overtopping  the  summer  ripple.  The 
boys,  astonished  and  surprised,  ceased  their  bombardment  of  stones  an 
the  strange  gentleman  from  London  approached  the  wreck.  There, 
some  eight  or  ten  rats,  with  the  curious  instinct  of  their  kind,  had 
climbed  their  way  up  from  the  hold  to  the  royals,  and  crouched  together 
in  abject  fear,  one  beside  the  other,  huddled  together  in  that  doubtful 
situation.  Harry  Chichele,  with  incautious  haste,  put  out  his  hand  to 
seize  the  foremost.  The  frightened  brute,  always  savage  by  nature, 
and  now  alarmed  beyond  its  wont  by  the  cannonade  of  stones,  unable 
to  distinguish  friend  from  foe,  made  a  fierce  dash  at  his  well-meaning 
hand,  and  gashed  his  thumb  deeply  with  its  projecting  incisors.  Harry 
withdrew  his  hand  in  haste,  and  bound  round  the  bleeding  wound 
hurriedly  with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  Then,  with  the  imperturbable 
good  humour  of  his  profession,  he  made  a  sudden  dash  once  more  tA 
the  napo  of  the  oflTonding  animal's  neck,  and,  before  it  had  time  to  re- 
cover from  its  breathless  surprise,  dropped  it  like  a  kitten  on  the  Itoot 
of  the  dingey. 

The  other  rats,  with  the  usual  sagacity  of  ratkind,  having  watched 
this  incident  with  profound  interest,  and  satisfied  themselves,  in  their 
(S) 


34  THB  deyil'b  die. 

own  wise  heads,  that  no  immediate  harm  of  any  sort  had  come  to  their 
comrade,  suflfered  Harry  to  lift  them  quietly,  one  by  one,  from  the  rig- 
ging into  the  dingey  without  resistence  ;  and,  as  he  rowed  back  again 
from  the  shore,  the  great  brown  beasts  grouped  themHelves  expectant 
in  the  bows  of  the  boat,  waiting,  all  alert,  for  the  very  first  chance  of 
landing.  As  the  dingey  touched  the  shore  with  her  bi)W8,  with  one 
accord  they  leaped  out  wildly  on  to  the  shingle,  and  without  so  much 
as  waiting  to  thank  their  benefactor,  scampered  away  at  the  top  of 
their  speed  for  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  bracken  and  underbrush. 

Harry  pulled  the  boat  up  by  himself  on  to  the  beach,  while  Olwen, 
looking  with  unconcealed  anxiety  at  his  wounded  hand,  inquired,  in  an 
sager  and  timid  tone,  whether  the  rat  had  seriously  hurt  it. 

*' Oh  no,"  Harry  answered,  with  an  unconcerned  smile,  unwinding 
thb  K^ndkerchief  and  bathing  the  wound  with  fresh  water  from  the 
little  rili  that  flowed  down  the  broken  chine  to  form  the  cove.  *'  It's 
nothing — nothing.  Please  don't  talk  about  it.  Perhaps  you  would 
kindly  bind  it  up  for  me." 

Olwen,  who  knew  well  ho'7  to  make  a  surgical  bandage,  took  the 
handkerchief  he  offered  her,  delighted  with  the  chance  of  making  her- 
self useful  to  him,  and  wound  it  round  the  wounded  part  with  native 
dexterity.  '*  You  don't  think,"  she  said,  with  an  evident  anxiety  which 
flattered  Harry's  sense  of  self-importance,  "  that  a  bite  from  a  creature, 
mad  with  terror  like  that,  would  be  really  serious  and  dangerous,  do 
you  ?    Not  like  a  rabid  animal's,  for  example  ?  " 

Harry  laughed  off  the  suggestion  lightly.  It  is  so  delightful  to  bc 
made  much  of.  "Oh,  dear  no,"  he  said  ;  "  it's  quite  unimportant. 
Medical  men  are  accustomed  to  these  small  injuries.  It'll  be  all 
right  again  to-morrow  morning." 

Olwen  walked  on  beside  him  for  a  while  in  silence.  Presently  she 
gave  a  timid  glance  once  more  into  his  handsome  face.  "  Dr.  Chichele," 
she  said  with  some  hesitation,  "  I  know  it's  awfully  nervous,  awfully 
stupid  of  me  ;  but  could  that  rat  possibly  have  got — germs,  or  anyt^uap* 
like  that, — connected  with  the  cholera  about  him  anyhow  ?  " 

Harry's  heart  leaped  up  at  the  suggestion.  How  sweet  that  she 
should  thus  be  ferreting  out  for  herself,  as  it  were,  every  possible 
source  of  danger  for  him.  *'  Oh,  dear  no,"  he  answered,  with  peptscfc 
confidence.  "  Dismiss  the  idea  at  once  from  your  mind,  I  beg  of  you. 
The  wound's  nothing  at  all  to  speak  of.  It'll  heal,  in  my  present 
vigorous  condition  of  health,  in  less  than  no  time.  But  it's  very  kind 
indeed  of  you,  Miss  Tregellas,  to  take  so  much  personal  interest  in  the 
matter." 

Olwen  blushed,  and  wondered  vaguely  in  her  own  heart  whether  she 
tad  said  too  much.  They  walked  on  a  little  further,  still  without 
speaking.  Then  Harry  paused  and  said  suddenly,  al6ud,  but  as  if  to 
himself,  "  I'm  sorry  I  let  those  rats  go,  after  all.  I  might  have  kept 
them  and  given  them  to  the  Begum. " 

"  Give  them  to  whom  ? "  Olwen  asked,  in  wonder,  A  rat  would 
be  such  an  incomprehensible  present. 

**0h,  nothing,"  Harry  answered,  evasively,  recollecting  himMtf. 


THE    DBVIL'8    DIK.  M 

He  didn't  care  to  speak  about  the  snake  to  Olwen.  Snakes  are  such 
very  uncanny  possesBions.  **  But,  perhaps," —  be  ransacked  his  brains 
for  an  excuse — "  perhaps  it  wasn't  exactly  right  of  me  to  let  them  go 
as  I  did  among  the  farmers'  com  and  gardens." 

As  they  walked  in  at  the  rectory  gate  on  their  return  from  their 
stroll,  Mohammad  Ali,  seated  on  the  garden  chair  beside  Ivan  Royle, 
■canned  them  both  closely  with  his  keen  and  piercing  oriental  scrutiny. 

"  They've  been  talking  a  great  deal  to  one  another,"  he  muttered, 
half  aloud  ;  *  *  but,  thank  heaven  1  the  man  hasn't  yet  proposed  to  her.'* 

Ivan  Royle  lifted  his  eyes  in  hasty  inquiry.  They  met  Mohammad 
Ali's  full  in  front  for  a  single  second.  Once  more  the  same  little  panto- 
mime went  on  as  before  with  Harry.  Then  Ivan  looked  down  again, 
hot  and  red,  at  his  drawing.  In  that  indivisible  point  of  time  the  two 
men  had  read  one  another's  ideas  aright.  They  said  nothing,  but  rose 
and  moved  to  the  house  together. 

They  were  all  three  in  love  at  once  with  Olwen  Tregellas,  each  man 
after  his  own  fashion. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

As  Ivan  Royle  sat  sketching  in  the  garden  again  the  morning  after, 
while  Mohammad  Ali  leaned  back  with  Eastern  indolence  in  the  easy 
chair  beside  him,  puffing  a  cigarette  between  his  pearl-white  teeth,  the 
Englishman  suddenly  looked  up  with  a  curious  glance  from  his  piece  of 
work,  and  said  abruptly,  without  preface  or  apology,  "  Ali,  why  on 
earth  did  you  say  that  yesterday  ?  " 

*'  Say  what  ? "  the  Indian  asked,  with  pretended  unconsciousness, 
though  he  knew  perfectly  well  in  his  own  mind  to  what  Ivan  alluded. 

*'  Say,  '  Thank  heaven  he  hasn't  yet  proposed  to  her,'  "  the  artist 
continued  quietly. 

Mohammad  Ali  held  his  peace  for  a  moment.  Then  he  flung  away 
the  end  of  his  cigarette  with  petulant  haste,  raised  himself  on  his  elbows 
in  the  easy  chair,  and  leaned  across  nearer  to  Ivan. 

**  Because  I  don't  want  Harry  Chichele  to  mar  that  divine  being's 
beautiful  life  for  her,"  he  answered  softly,  almost  whispering. 

Ivan  started.  He  pretended  for  a  moment  to  trifle  with  his  lights 
and  shades.  "Why  not?"  he  asked  presently,  with  a  furtive  look 
sideways  at  Ali. 

"Because  you  would  make  her  a  far  better  husband,  Royle," 
Mohammad  Ali  answered  incisively,  after  a  short  pause. 

The  words  were  said  with  an  evident  struggle.  They  took  Ivan 
Royle  quite  by  surprise.  ^^Mef  "  he  cried.  "  ATe,  did  you  say  f 
Why  me  ?    Why  should  you  think  of  me  at  all  in  the  matter,  Ali }  '* 

"Because,  Royle,  I  know  you  love  her." 

•*  You  know  I  love  her  !     But "     And  he  hesitated. 

**  Yes.     What  ?    Don't  be  afraid.     Who  am  I  f    A  poor  black  1    I 


86  THB  DBTIL'S  DIB. 

• 

flon't  oount.     Yon  needn't  be  nervous  before  me.     What  is  it  t    Tell 
me  I    Tell  me  all  about  it !  " 

'But,  Ali — I  thought — you,  too — admired  her." 

Mohammad  Ali  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  pained  face,  and 
clenched  his  fists  hard  and  tight  together.  "  Admire  her  1 "  he  cried. 
**  I  adore  her  1  I  worship  her  1  I  kiss  the  very  ground  she  walks 
upon  1  She  is  to  me  a  divine  creature  1  Royle,  I  would  die  for  her  I 
I  would  give  my  life  up  to  make  her  happy." 

*»  And  yet " 

**  And  yet  I  want  to  see  you  marry  her.  Yes,  I  do.  I  spoke  the 
truth  to  you.  Is  that  too  deep  for  your  sober,  matter-of-fact  English 
brain  1  It's  not  too  deep  for  the  inferior  intelligence  of  the  mere 
unsophisticated  natural  black  man.  I  admire  and  respect  and  worship 
that  heavenly  apparition  far  too  profoundly  ever  to  let  her  know  her- 
self the  feeling  I  bear  towards  her." 

The  Englishman  looked  at  him  with  searching  eyes.  *'  That — that 
is  very  noble  of  you,  Ali,"  he  answered  at  last. 

Mohammad  Ali's  lip  quivered  a  little.  *'You  know  what  one  at 
yourselves,  a  poet  of  your  own,  has  written,"  he  murmured.  "  *My 
spirit  is  too  deeply  laden  ever  to  burden  thine.'  A  black  man,  of 
course,  has  no  right  to  love  her.  But  he  may  at  least  keep  his  love  to 
himself;  he  may  feel  for  her  in  silence  that  'devotion  to  something 
afar  from  the  sphere  of  his  sorrow,*  that  Shelley  talks  about." 

Ivan  Royle's  fingers  trembled  visibly  on  the  sheet  of  paper.      **  I 
can  forgive  you,  Ali,"  he  said.     *'  It's  very  natural.     No  man  on  earth 
could  ever  see  her  and  not  fall  in  love  with  her." 
I     **  Not  even  a  black  man,"  the  Mussulman  assented  fervently. 
!     *'  But,  Ali,  why  do  you  want  me  to  marry  her  ? " 

"Because,"  Ali  answered,  *'  I  watched  you  here  all  these  days — oh, 
so  closely — ^you  don't  know  how  closely — no  Englishman  could  ever    / 
watch  as  we  do  ;  as  the  cat  watches  the  mouse's  hole,  so  we  Easterns 
watch  people — and  I  see  you're  a  good  man  and  true  ;  a  man  who  would 
try  to  make  her  happy." 

**  But  why  do  you  think,  then,  that  Chichele  wouldn't  also  ?  You 
and  he  have  been  old  friends.  Why  do  you  back  me  against  him,  as  it 
were  I    Why  did  you  say,  *  Thank  heaven  I '  yesterday  ?  " 

Mohammad  Ali  paused  and  deliberated.  "Royle,"  he  raid  at  last, 
with  a  burst  of  confidence,  '*  you're  a  genuine  fellow,  a  good  man  and 
true,  I  do  believe.  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know.  It  may  be  the  merest 
prejudice  on  my  part.  Heaven  knows  we're  all  of  us  one  mass  of  pre- 
judices, black  people  and  white  people  all  alike  ;  there  isn't  much  to 
choose  between  us.  But  I  feel  the  prejudice  and  I  won't  deny  it.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  Begum  Johanna  of  Deoband  ? " 

Ivan  shook  his  head  decidedly.  "  You  mentioned  her  once  the  other 
day,"  he  said.  "  But  what  on  earth  has  Begum  Johanna  of  Deoband 
got  to  do  with  this  question  between  myself  and  Chichele  ? " 

**  Listen  first,  while  I  tell  you  her  story,"  Mohammad  Ali  interposed 
with  oriental  gravity.  And  then,  in  his  quiet  Arab  fashion,  he  told 
ivan  at  full  length  tiie  episode  of  the  slave  girl,  yexy  much  aa  be  had 


THB  DEYIL'b  DIB.  S7 

fccld  it  to  Harry  Chichela  himself  on  the  morning  of  his  first  arrival  at 
Polperran. 

Ivan  listened  with  curious  interest  as  the  Indian  retailed  to  him  that 
rhaatly  tale  of  incredible  Eastern  cruelty  and  barbarism.  When  Ali 
had  finished,  he  asked  in  a  puzzled  way,  *  *  But  what  on  earth  has  all 
this  to  do,  my  dear  fellow,  with  me  and  Ghichele  ?  What  connection 
has  he  with  your  people  in  India  ? " 

Mohammad  Ali  looked  him  hard  in  the  face.  He  answered  slowly 
»nd  very  distinctly,  growing  hot  in  the  cheeks  with  surprise  and  horror, 
•'  My  people,  did  you  say,  Royle  ?  My  people  ?  My  people  ?  No,  no, 
my  dear  friend  ;  I  have  neither  scot  nor  lot  with  Hindoos  like  that — 
me,  a  genuine  freeborn  Arab  of  the  Arabs.  His  people,  you  mean  ; 
his  people,  it  is  rather.  For  Harry  Chichele,  white  as  he  looks,  is  a 
lineal  descendant  in  the  fourth  degree  of  Begum  Johanna,  who  buried 
alive  the  slave  girl." 

*'  Impossible  ! "  Ivan  exclaimed,  laying  down  his  brush  in  his  surprise) 
and  incredulity.  "The  Chicheles  are  a  well-known  Anglo-Indian 
family  ;  and  Harry's  grandmother  was  one  of  the  Peytons  of  Yorkshire, 
he  tells  me— a  daughter,  you  know,  of  Lord  St.  Maurice's." 

"Exactly,"  Mohammad  Ali  went  on,  with  merciless  precision. 
*  *  His  grandmother,  as  you  say,  was  one  of  the  Peytons  of  Yorkshire. 
And  the  Peytons  sold  themselves,  body  and  soul,  for  Begum  Johanna's 
broad  gold  mohurs.  This  is  just  how  it  all  happened — you  can  look  it 
up  for  yourself,  if  you  choose,  in  the  '  Peerage.'  Begum  Johanna's 
husband — let  us  call  him,  for  convenience  sake,  her  husband — was  a 
certain  adventurer  of  the  name  of  K^rouac,  a  Breton  Frenchman,  a 
sailor  by  trade,  and  a  soldier  of  fortune  by  predilection  ;  and  it  was  he 
who  founded  the  estate  of  Deoband.  Now,  the  Begum  had  a  son  by 
him,  one  Philippe  K^rouac,  a  half-caste  of  course,  neither  one  thing  nor 
the  other,  who  inherited  his  mother's  vast  fortune,  worth  eighty 
thousand  sterling  a  year  if  it  was  worth  a  penny.  This  Philippe 
K^rouac  was  educated  in  England,  and  married  there.  He  had  one 
daughter,  Philippa  Pindi,  whom  he  called  after  her  father  and  grand- 
mother ;  for  though  the  Begum  at  her  conversion  (I  hope  I  use  the 
correct  expression)  was  baptized  as  Johanna,  her  native  nauio  was  first 
Pindi.  Well,  Lord  St.  Maurice's  eldest  son  married  our  friend,  Philippa 
Pindi  de  Kerouac — it  had  grown  to  an  aristocratic  de  by  that  time,  if 
you  please — and  with  her  all  the  estate  of  Deoband.  Or  nither,  he 
married  the  estate  of  Deoband,  encumbered  as  it  was  with  the  awk- 
ward necessity  for  taking  a  brown-skinned  half-caste  Miss  de  Kerouac 
into  the  bargain .  And  that's  how  Harry  Chichele,  white  as  he  looks, 
comes  to  be  lineally  descended  in  the  fourth  degree  from  that  unspeak- 
able woman.  Begum  Johanna." 

"  I  see,"  Ivan  Royle  answered  slowly.  "  But  surely,  Ali,  you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  distrust  Harry  Chichele  merely — merely  because 
he  has  in  his  veins  some  trifling  fraction  of  the  blood  of  your  own 
people  ? " 

Mohammad  Ali  started  aghast  once  .nore.  *'  My  own  people,"  he 
oried,  hftlf  angrily.    "  Again  you  say  my  own  people  1  No,  no,    Thank 


S8  THB  devil's  DHL 

heaven,  no  drop  of  that  fearful  woman's  accursed  blood  flows  in  one 
vein  of  mine,  my  dear  fellow." 

**  Well,  Ali,  I  confess  for  my  part  I'd  rather  not  be  descended  from 
that  dreadful  Begum  of  yours." 

**  That  Begum  of  mine  1  Again  you  repeat  it  1  How  you  persist  in 
your  national  error  1  You  mean  that  Begum  of  yours  and  of  Harry 
Chichele's  !  After  all,  the  Begum  was  Hindoo  by  birth  and  Christian 
by  religion — your  own  Aryan  sister  in  race,  while  I  am  pure  unadul- 
terated Semite.  We,  who  are  Moslems  of  the  old  rock  in  the  North- 
West  Provinces,  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  either  Hindoos  or  Christ- 
ians. We  have  lived  among  the  heathen  for  twenty  generations, 
exactly  as  the  Jews  have  lived  among  you  English,  intermarrying  only 
with  our  own  stock,  and  keeping  ourselves  as  separate  still  in  blood  as 
in  religion.  And  just  as  the  Jews  are  better  than  the  English,  so  do 
we  Moslems  flatter  ourselves  in  our  own  hearts  we  are  of  better  blood 
than  the  heathen  Hindoos  who  live  around  us." 

Ivan  paused  irresolute  a  moment ;  then  he  said,  "  But,  Ali,  have 
you  any  more  definite  reason  than  that  to  give  for  distrusting 
Chichelef" 

*'Well,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  "I'^  known  Chichele  for  a 
good  many  years  now,  and  till  lately  I've  al^vays  thought  I  liked  him 
immensely.  But  the  way  you  regard  a  man  undergoes  a  decided  change, 
of  course,  when  you  think— when  you  think  what  effect  his  life  would 
have  upon  the  life  of  a  woman  whom  you  respect  and  honour  with  all 
the  force  and  energy  of  your  nature.  Of  late  it  has  often  occurred  to 
me,  I  confess,  that  Harry  Chichele  has  two  sides — an  English  side,  and 
a  side  derived  from  his  ancestress,  the  Begum.  It's  perfectly  well 
known  in  India  that  every  one  of  that  terrible  woman's  descendants, 
of  whatever  race,  down  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  is  as  cold  as 
steel  and  as  cruel  as  a  tiger.  Now  there's  a  certain  keen,  cold,  scientifio 
doliberateness  about  much  Harry  Chichele  does,  that  sometimes  makes 
me  tremble  for  the  happiness  of  any  woman  who  mii^ht  have  to  pass  her 
life  tied  up  to  him.  Harry  Chichele  is  good  enough  and  pleasant  enough 
in  his  own  way  to  make  a  friend  of  ;  he  isn't  good  enough,  if  you  ask 
me  that,  to  entrust  with  the  keeping  of  Miss  Tregellas's  entire  future." 

"Ali,"  the  young  Englishman  said  with  a  sudden  impulse,  "I'm 
glad  you  say  so,  for  I've  half  fancied  it  once  or  twice  myself  ;  and  then 
I've  been  ashamed  of  myself  for  even  fancying  it,  after  all  that  you  and 
he  have  done  together  for  me.  I've  said  to  myself,  '  Is  it  only  my  own 
selfish  feeling  that  makes  me  think  I  would  make  that  beautiful  pure 
woman  a  better  husband  than  Harry  Chichele  ? '  I've  hesitated  and 
doubted  in  my  own  mind  whether  it  wouldn't  be  a  mean  and  wicked 
action  on  my  part  to  try  and  win  her  if — if,  as  I  thought,  he  wished  to 
marry  her.  For  one  thing,  I  said  to  myself,  wasn't  it  ungrateful  of 
me  ;  for  another  thing,  I  said,  could  I  ever  do  as  much  for  her  in  life 
as  he  could  do.  And  then  I  imagined  I  saw  in  him  underlying  signs  of 
a  cruel,  hard,  cold  disposition,  and  I  was  angry  with  myself  for  ventur- 
irig  to  see  them,  lest  I  should  be  doing  the  man  a  real  imjuBtice." 

Ali  spoke  with  singular  earnestness.   "  Harry  Chichele'*  a  very  good 


THi  devil's  Dtl.  89 

fellow  in  his  way/*  he  said  ;  *'  but  heaven  fprhid,  while  you  and  I  live, 
he  should  ever  many  01  wen  Tregellas.  I  ought  to  have  spoken  to  you 
sooner  about  it.  I  was  wrong  to  wait,  out  of  foolish  shrinking.  Mav 
Allah  grant  it  isn't  now  too  late  1  Royle,  Royle,  for  that  good  woman  8 
dear  sake,  you  must  try  to  save  her  from  Harry  Chichele. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  which  Ivan  broke  at  last  by  saying  abruptly^ 
"  Ali,  you're  a  better  man  after  all,  ten  thousand  times,  than  either  of 
us  !  'The  utter  way  you  sink  yourself  and  your  own  hope  in  this  matter 
makes  me  feel  ashamed  of  my  dreadful  selfishness." 

Mohammad  Ali  smiled  a  bitter  smile.  "My  dear  fellow,"  he  answered, 
with  a  feeble  attempt  at  forced  gaiety,  "I  deserve  no  credit  at  all  for 
that.     Kismet :  it  is  fated.     No  other  course  is  possibly  open  to  me. 
It's  all  that  destiny  about  which  I  spoke  to  you.     I  admire  and  respect 
Miss  Tregellas  immensely.     Her  happiness  is  to  me  a  matter  of  great 
moment.     I  would  give  my  very  eyes,  if  I  could,  to  serve  her.     I  fear 
and  mistrust  Harry  Chichele.     I  don't  want  to  see  her  make  over  her 
precious  life  to  his  tender  mercies.    I  recognize  you  as  a  better,  a  truer, 
and  a  gentler  man.     I   would  like  to  see  you,  therefore,  make  her 
happy.     For  myself,  who  and  what  am  I  ?    A  blank  !    A  nobody  1    A 
nothing  1    A  cypher  1     Why  are  we  two  talking  together  as  we  do  talk 
together  now  ?    Because  I  am  a  black  man,  while  you  are  a  white  one. 
Otherwise,  the  thing  would  be  impossible.     Could  you  have  talked  so 
with  any  white  man  ?    Never,  never  ?     Why  can  you  unburden  your- 
self so  to  me  T    Why  can  I  unburden  myself  so  to  you  ?    Because  we 
both  know  in  our  own  hearts  that,  so  far  as  Miss  Tregellas  or  any  other 
Englishwoman  is  concerned,  a  man  of  my  colour  is  no  man  at  all,  but  a 
thing,  a  being,  an  abstract  conception.     Look  at  me,  Royle.     I'll  tell 
you  the  whole  simple  truth.     I  love  that  beautiful  divine  apparition 
with  all  the  profoundest  love  of  which  my  nature  is  capable.     Well, 
then,  it's  my  plain  duty — never  while  she  lives  to  let  her  know  it.   The 
knowledge  of  it  could  only  distress  her.    Why  should  I  hurt  her  tender 
heart  by  allowing  it  to  see  the  scars  on  mine  ?    I  have  but  one  thought 
for  her — to  make  her  happy.     I  fear  and  tremble  for  her  if  she  accepts 
Chichele.     Won't  you  trust  your  own  heart,  man,  and  step  in  between 
them  in  time  to  save  her  ? " 

•*  Ali,"  the  Englishman  cried,  "  you  are  too  good,  you  are  too  noble, 
you  are  too  generous,  you  are  too  chivalrous  !  I  wish  I  was  half  such 
a  fellow  as  you  are  t  In  my  love  there  is  too  much  selfishness.  Yours 
seems  to  be  all  pure  devotion." 

Mohammad  Ali  smiled  sadly  again.  "  It's  easy  to  be  generous  and 
chivalrous,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "  when  you  are  only  a  black  man.  If 
I  were  white  as  you  are  to-day,  Royle,  I  would  speak  for  myself.  I 
would  speak  quite  otherwise.  As  it  is,  I  have  only  one  desire— to 
make  Miss  Tregellas's  life  happy.  I  really  believe  you  are  worthy  of 
her.  I  really  doubt  Harry  Chichele.  What  else  can  I  do  but  act  upon 
my  belief  ?  Don't  lose  another  moment,  I  beg  of  you.  For  her  own 
sake  as  well  as  for  yours,  don't  let  Chichele  carry  her  off  undefended." 
"But,  Ali,  am^  %fnt  herl  Am  I  gaud  enough?  Am  I  worthy 
•fkerl" 


40  THB   DfiVIL'S  DIB. 

Mohammad  Ali  looked  hard  at  him.  "No  man  is  worthy  of  her,** 
he  Raid  shortly.  "  No  man  deserves  her.  No  man  in  good  enough. 
But  you  will  do  as  well  as  another,  and  a  great  deal  better  than  Harry 
Chichele.     If  I  did  not  think  so,  I  would  not  have  spoken  to  you." 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

That  evening  Ivan  Royle  had  tea  in  the  garden  for  the  first  time 
with  the  rest  of  the  party.  After  tea,  the  three  men  wandered  off 
upon  the  moor  together,  the  rector  wishing  to  show  Harry  and  All  a 
remarkable  logan-stone,  and  Ivan  and  Olwen  were  left  alone  for  a  while 
in  the  garden. 

Ivan  had  never  before  seen  the  beautiful  Cornish  girl  look  so  purely 
beautiful  as  she  did  that  evening.  Evidently  Olwen  was  at  her  best, 
and  she  blushed  and  dropped  her  eyes  from  time  to  time  in  a  delicious 
way  that  niude  her  even  more  bewitchingly  pretty  than  ever. 

**You  seem  yourself  this  evening,"  the  young  painter  began  tenta- 
tively. "  1  don't  think  I've  seen  you  look  so  well  and  happy  ever  since 
we  came  to  Polperran  to  bring  you  trouble." 

**  Perhaps,"  Olwen  said,  a  little  archly,  "that's  because  you're  getting 
better." 

Ivan  was  pleased.  So  small  a  thing  pleases  us  in  those  supreme 
moments  of  a  lifetime.  "Miss  Tregellas,  will  you  do  me  a  great 
favour  ?    Will  you  let  me  sketch  you  just  as  you  stand  there  ?  " 

Olwen  laughed  a  merry  little  laugh.  "  As  you  please,"  she  said. 
"  But  what  will  you  do  with  it  ?  Will  you  send  me  in,  full  length,  to 
the  Academy  ?  How  funny  it'd  look  to  see  one's  self  there,  stuck  up 
on  the  walls  for  everbody  to  gaze  at — '  Portrait  of  a  Lady  1 " 

*'  I  shall  send  it  to  the  Academy,"  Ivan  answered,  quite  seriously, 
arranging  his  easel ;  "  and,  if  I  do  my  sitter  anything  like  justice,  it 
ought  to  attract  immense  attention." 

"Why,  now,  Mr.  Royle  you're  really  convalescent.  You're  begin- 
ning to  say  pretty  things  to  me." 

Ivan  Roylo  looked  up  at  her  with  admiring  eyes.  He  had  fixed  his 
canvas  straight  upon  the  little  easel,  and  was  sketching  in  the  beautiful 
outlines  of  that  graceful  figure.  He  worked  rapidly  and  with  practised 
deftness.  Olwen  looked  back  at  him  and  smiled  in  return.  He  had 
never  seen  her  so  frank  and  engaging  as  she  was  that  evening.  She 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  usual  girlish,  blushing  timidity,  and  to 
treat  him  more  with  cordial  unrosorve  as  she  might  have  treated  her 
own  brother. 

Olwen  kept  her  place  opposite  him  exactly  as  he  had  posed  hor,  and 
watched  him  steadily  as  his  hand  ran  free  in  easy  curves  over  his  squar* 
of  canvas.     The  young  painter  went  on  with  his  work  for  a  whd«  in 


THK  DEYIL's  DIB.  41 

Bilence  ;  then,  with  an  irresistible  ii  pulse,  he  laid  down  the  brush  and 
came  over  to  her  quite  suddenly.  *  Miss  Tregellas,"  he  said,  without 
any  preface,  his  voice  trembling  slightly  as  he  spoke  ;  *'  you  have  saved 
my  life.     Will  you  make  it  happy  for  ever  by  sharing  it  ?  " 

Olwen  drew  back,  astonished  at  his  abruptness.  She  looked  up  into 
his  handsome  face  with  wondering  surprise.  This  was  indeed  an 
attempt  to  carry  her  by  storm.  "Mr.  Royle,"  she  said,  simply,  '*  I 
didn't  know  you  meant  that.     Oh  no  ;  I  cannot,  I  cannot." 

Ivan  Royle  looked  her  back  in  the  face  with  unspoken  inquiry  in  the 
depths  of  his  deep,  earnest,  blue  eyes.  Olwen  had  never  nc^tioed  before 
how  deep,  and  true,  and  gentle  those  eyes  were.  She  shrank  a  little 
before  them  ;  they  seemed  to  look  her  through  and  through,  with  some 
infinite  yearning — so  tenderly  and  so  profoundly.  "Why  not?"  he 
asked,  in  the  same  soft  voice.  "  Have  I  been  too  precipitate  only,  or 
is  there — is  there  some  other  reason  ? " 

Olwen  raised  her  eyes  once  more  till  they  met  his.  She  hardly  dared 
to  look  him  in  the  face  and  answer  him  back.  "There  is  another 
reason,"  she  whispered  at  last  very  softly. 

Iran  spoke  not  another  word.  Her  eyes  had  told  him  plainly  what 
it  was.  He  saw  it ;  Ire  knew  it.  Harry  Cliichele  had  been  beforehand 
with  him. 

He  let  his  hand  drop  idly  by  his  side.  The  gesture  was  full  of 
unspoken  despondency.  His  eyes  for  a  moment  grew  very  dim.  ' '  Miss 
Tregellas,"  he  said,  "  I'm  truly  sorry  for  it.  But  if  it  is  so,  I  dare  not 
regret  it.  I  hope  it's  for  the  best  for  you.  Forgive  my  audacity. 
Forget  what  I  have  said.     I  hope  we  may  still  be  friends  always." 

Olwen  raised  her  eyes  once  more,  with  timid  lashes,  and  met  the 
young  man's  fully  and  frankly,  "  We  shall  be  friends  always,"  she 
answered,  taking  his  hands  with  not  unwomanly  kindness.  '•  I  feel  I 
have  a  sort  of  right  in  you  now.  Don't  let  this  mistake  come  up  as  a 
shadow  between  us.  I  shall  always  remember  with  pleasure  the  happy 
time  we  have  all  spent  here  this  year  together." 

"Thank  you,"  Ivan  said  simply,  pressing  her  hand  in  his  like  a 
friend's.  "  It's  very  good  of  you  indeed  to  say  so.  It  was  presump- 
tuous of  me  ^ver  to  have  hoped  as  I  did  ;  but  a  man  will  soiiietimea 
hope  presumptuously.  Let  us  not  say  a  word  more  about  it.  You  will 
give  me  your  friendship,  you  say.  That  alone  is  more  than  I  dare  ask  ; 
I  shall  prize  it  above  everything,  absolutely  everything,  that  any  one 
else  could  ever  give  me." 

Olwen  stood  still  half  irresolute  on  the  lawn,  holding  his  hand  even 
yet  in  hers.  She  knew  that  she  ought  to  leave  him  at  once  —that  any 
other«girl  would  instantly  leave  him  ;  and  yet  she  could  not  bear  in  her 
heart  to  do  it.  He  had  been  so  ill,  and  he  seemed  so  sorry.  She  stood 
and  looked  as  him  irresolutely  again  and  again. 

Why  did  she  wait  there  ?  WJiy  did  she  not  go  1  Why  did  she  trifle 
with  the  poor  young  painter  ?  Olwen  Tregellas  fancied  herself  in  love 
with  Harry  Chichelo— the  fluent  talker,  the  clever  admirer.  In  that 
belief  she  had  that  morning  answered  an  almost  inaudible  "Yea"  to 
bia  ardent  questioning.    As  she  faced  Ivan  Koyle  there  now  on  tht 


a  TBI  DEYIL'I  DII. 

lawn,  she  did  not  know — even  she  herself — that  the  beating  of  her  heart 
told  her  that  she  had  answered  the  wrong  person. 

And  yet  she  could  not  choose  but  stop.  Some  invisible  power  that 
she  knew  not  of  compelled  her  to  wait  against  her  will  and  linger  on 
the  lawn.  She  roused  herself  at  last  from  her  strange  reverie,  and 
dropped  the  painter's  hand  as  if  half  guilty,  "  Let  us  go  on  with  the 
picture,"  she  said  softly. 

Ivan  Royle,  recalled  to  himself  by  the  word  and  action,  took  up  his 
brush  again,  and  began  in  some  half-hearted  mechanical  way  to  pretend 
acquiescence  with  her  strange  command.  How  odd  of  her  to.  wish  him 
to  go  on  at  present  I  At  first  he  could  not  fix  his  mind  upon  the  pic- 
ture. But  after  a  while,  as  he  looked  again  and  again  at  that  pure, 
■weet  face,  the  light  in  Olwen's  eyes  burned  so  bright,  and  the  colour 
in  her  cheeks  came  and  went  so  daintily,  that  he  could  not  help  himself 
from  getting  interested  at  last,  and  hastily  painting  in  the  whole  face 
— ^just  as  it  had  rejected  him.  He  was  glad,  now,  she  had  asked  him 
to  do  it.     He  wanted  to  keep  it  for  a  memento  of  Olwen. 

He  stopped  there  painting,  with  fiery  energy,  till  the  light  failed,  and 
the  shades  of  evening  began  to  draw  in  round  the  rectory  garden. 
Then  he  brought  in  his  easel  on  his  arm  to  the  verandah,  and  took  a 
Beat  under  the  broad  roof  outside  the  open  drawing-room  window.  But 
still  Olwen  did  not  go  away.  She  sat  on  the  verandah,  and  looked  out 
into  the  evening,  waiting  for  her  father  and  the  two  young  men  to 
return  from  the  logan-stone.  There  was  a  certain  unwonted  pensive- 
ness  in  her  tone,  she  knew  not  why.  She  was  very  sorry  for  Ivan 
Royle.  Poor  fellow  I  She  began  to  see  now  how  deeply  he  was 
grieved.     She  began  to  see  it,  and  for  his  sake  she  regretted  it  bitterly. 

If  she  had  only  had  two  hearts  to  give,  she  could  have  given  one  of 
them  then  to  Ivan. 

As  for  Ivan,  he  sat  there  as  in  a  dream,  realizing  to  himself  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  that  this  beautiful  girl,  whom  he  had  barely  known 
for  a  fortnight  yet,  was  hencefoi  th  and  for  ever  a  component  element 
in  his  being  and  his  happiness.  He  could  understand  Mohammad  All 
better  now.  Henceforth  he,  too,  must  live  for  one  object — to  make 
Olwen  Tregellas  happy. 

By-and-by  voices  sounded  at  the  gate,  and  the  rector  and  the  two 
young  men  strolled  lightly  up  the  little  avenue.  Harry  Ghichele  and 
Ali  joined  the  silent  couple  on  the  verandah.  '*  What !  sitting  out  in 
the  twilight,"  Harry  cried  half  banteringly  in  his  cheery  voice, 
already  with  the  very  tone  of  assured  possession.  '*  How  delightfully 
romantic.  And  with  the  moon  rising  behind  the  clouds  too.  What  a 
lucky  fellow  you  are,  Royle.  And  what  have  you  been  doing  this 
afternoon  ?  Sketching  Miss  Tregellas,  I  do  declare  1  Oh,  let  me  see 
it.  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  this  is  just  magnificent  1  You  must  finish 
this.  It's  gloriously  begun.  We  haven't  seen  you  do  anything  one 
half  so  good.  Your  flesh  tones  are  simply  splendid.  Figure  mutt  be 
your  forte.     Why  do  you  go  and  waste  yourself  on  landscape  t " 

'*  Perhaps,"  Ivao  said,  smiling  r^grotluli^t  "  Vb*  fubjeot  inspired 


THS  devil's  DIB.  43 

Harry  darted  a  quick  glance  at  him  as  he  stoccl,  aoraewhat  dejected, 
by  the  shadowy  8k>atch,  with  his  brush  in  his  hand.  '*  And  well  it 
might,"  he  answered  quickly,  as  01  wen,  blushing,  pretended  to  busy 
herself  with  a  rose  from  the  verandah.  **  This  is  a  beautiful  picture. 
You  must  finish  it  in  detail.  And  you  must  let  me  have  it  when  it's  all 
done,  Royle.     1  shall  buy  it  to  bewin  my  collection." 

Ivan  glanced  back  at  him  a  trifle  coldly,  not  to  say  haughtily.  **  I 
have  begun  it  for  myself,"  he  answered,  with  a  forced  smile.  '*  An 
artist  is  not  a  common  huckster.  I  want  to  keep  it  as  a  momento  of 
Polperran.  But  if  Miss  Tregellas  would  like  it  herself,  of  course,  that's 
quite  another  matter.  I  shall  be  happy  to  give  it  to  her,  and  paint  my- 
self a  replica  from  the  original  as  soon  as  it's  completed." 

Mohammad  Ali,  glowering  from  behind ,  said  nothing,  but  stood  in 
the  background  with  his  impenetrable  oriental  eyes  fixed  steadily  in  a 
keen  gaze  upon  the  three  chief  actors.  He  was  scanning  them  all  with 
that  close  and  cat-like  Eastern  scrutiny  of  which  he  had  himself  spoken 
to  Ivan.  Presently  Olwen  pulled  out  her  watch,  and  rose  with  a  start. 
*'I  shall  be  late  for  dinner,  if  I  don't  make  haste,"  she  said  simply. 

Harry  went  up  to  his  own  room,  too,  and  Ivan  and  the  Mussulman 
were  left  alone  in  the  twilight  under  the  verandah. 

As  soon  as  they  were  by  themselves  Mohammad  Ali  came  up  like  a 
shadow  to  his  new  friend's  side,  and  passing  his  arm  through  his  with 
silent  sympathy,  led  him  gently  and  unresistingly  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Then  he  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  sofa  in  the  corner,  and 
said,  in  his  soft,  quiet  voice,  instinct  with  all  a  woman's  delicate  feeling, 
"My  dear,  dear  fellow,  I'm  very  sorry.  For  your  sake,  I'm  unfeign- 
edly  sorry ;  but  for  hers — for  hers — ten  thousand  times  more  so." 

•'  Why,  how  do  you  know  it  all? "  Ivan  cried,  in  surprise. 

Mohammad  Ali  smiled  a  profound  smile  of  oriental  inscrutability. 
**  Have  I  not  eyes  ? "  he  answered  with  a  shrug.  '*  Have  I  not  ears  t 
Have  I  not  senses  ?  Do  I  not  know  all — all  that  has  hai)pened  ?  I 
have  read  it  on  the  open  book  of  your  three  faces — English  faces,  easy 
to  read  as  a  church  clock  or  a  flaring  advertisement.  This  evening, 
while  Harry  Chichele  and  I  were  out,  you  asked  Miss  Tregellas — asked 
her  boldly.  And  Miss  Tregellas  told  you  in  her  frank  way  she  could 
not  be  yours,  kindly,  but  decidedly.  And  you  asked  her  why  :  and 
she  answered  you  at  once,  or,  at  least,  she  let  you  know  by  acquiescent 
silence,  that  she'd  accepted  Harry  Chichele  this  very  morning.  And 
then  Miss  Tregellas,  instead  of  going  away,  stopped  on  the  lawn,  and 
you  went  on  painting  her  picture  for  all  that,  for  very  love  of  her.  And 
you  painted  it  well,  because  you  loved  her  ;  a  last  regretful  momento 
of  Polperran.  Is  that  not  so  ?  Eh,  my  patient  ?  Have  I  not  correctly 
read  the  symptoms  1 " 

"  It  is  so,"  Ivan  answered  with  a  quiet  sigh.  **  You  have  read  them 
only  too  correctly." 

•*  But  I  can  tell  you  more  than  that,"  the  Indian  went  on,  with  flash- 
ing eyes  and  an  almost  excited  air  that  was  very  difierent  from  his 
usual  passivity.  *'  I  can  tell  you  something  that  you  yourself  do  not 
know — that  even  Miss  Tregellas,  in  her  own  soul  has  never  guessed  at. 
I  only  know  it — I  alone.    Miae  Tregellas  lovee  you.** 


44  THB    devil's    Dl*. 

**  Oh  no,"  Ivan  cried,  with  a  sudden  gesture  of  profound  dissent. 
*'  Tou're  wrong  there,  Ali.  If  she  did,  she  would  never  liave  accepted 
Chichele'a  proposal." 

The  Indian  smiled  his  calm  smile  of  Eastern  superiority  once  more. 
*'  I  said,  she  did  not  know  it  herself,"  he  answered.  '*If  she  knew  it, 
she  would  not  have  taken  him.  But  many  a  woman  misinterprets  her 
own  mind.  The  heart  speaks  often  a  foreign  language.  If  I  read  her 
right,  Royle,  I  tell  you  for  a  truth  it  is  you  she  loves— you,  not  Chichele. 
She  has  made  a  fatal,  fatal  error.  But  it  may  not  yet  be  too  late  to 
correct  it." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Two  months  had  come  and  gone,  and  a  November  fog  with  its  black 
pall  had  taken  possession  of  the  heart  of  London.  In  the  top  room  of 
a  wretched  lodging-house  tenement  in  Marylebone,  a  girl  of  twelve  sat 
by  herself  late  at  night  on  a  rough  wooden  box,  which  did  duty  at  once 
for  chair  and  cupboard.  It  was  an  unplaned  deal  box,  that  had  once 
held  coarse  bars  of  soap  at  the  neighbouring  grocer's  ;  and  with  the 
trifling  exception  of  a  bundle  of  rags  in  the  far  corner,  regarded  for 
practical  purposes  as  a  bed,  it  formed  the  whole  and  sole  furniture  of 
that  miserable  attic.  A  cheap  candle,  stuck  in  an  old  ink-bottle  on  the 
floor  by  the  bedside,  diffused  a  darkness  visible  through  the  vile  room. 
The  one  window  was  broken  and  stuffed  with  brown  paper  ;  the  floor 
lay  bare  and  littered  with  bits  of  broken  glass  ;  and  the  last  remnants 
of  the  afternoon's  rain  still  dripped  slowly,  drop  by  drop,  through  the 
joints  in  the  loose  tiles,  into  a  tin  pan  of  very  dirty  water.  An  open 
Btaircase  led  up  to  the  attic  from  below  ;  the  noise  of  oaths  and  quarrel- 
ling resounded  dimly  frcan  the  other  apartments  of  the  wretched  lodg- 
ing-house. 

The  girl  herself,  though  she  would  have  given  her  age,  if  asked,  as 
"  going  thirteen,"  had  a  face  that  might  easily  have  passed  for  thirty, 
and  a  stumpy,  stunted,  undeveloped  little  body  that  would  have  done 
scanty  justice  to  ten  years  old.  Her  poor  small  hands  were  thin  and 
skinny,  her  matted  hair  appeared  never  to  have  made  acquaintance 
with  the  domestic  comb,  and  the  tattered  clothes  that  hardly  covered 
her  sharp  angular  little  limbs  and  wizened  bones  were  full  of  holes,  and 
wretchedly  insufficient  in  number  and  thickness.  The  child  crouched 
almost  double  on  the  box,  and  gnawed  her  nails  hungrily  a»  she 
crouched,  peHiaps,  because  she  had  nothing  else  in  particular  then,  or 
generally,  to  exercise  her  teeth  upon. 

For  a  long  time  the  unhappy  little  atom  sat  there  in  silence,  brood- 
ing to  herself  over  Heaven  knows  what  awful  childish  vagaries,  and 
never  stirring  or  moving  on  her  hard  scat  for  a  single  moment.  At  last, 
the  bundle  of  clothes  in  the  corner  quivered  and  shook,  and  the  child 
turned  sharply  round  at  tb«  rustle,  with  the  precocious  alert  attention 


THE  devil's  die.  46 

ti  children  who  know  that  a  savage  blow  is  the  sur«  result  of  a  passing 

second's  dereliction  of  duty. 

A  woman's  head  and  arm  raised  themselves  feebly  above  the  bundle 
of  rags.  It  was  a  face  of  the  most  horrible  bloated  description — one  of 
those  pufiy,  crimson  faces  out  of  which  the  very  semblance  of  our  com- 
mon humanity  seems  to  have  been  pounded  long  ago  by  drink  and  ill- 
usage.  It  had  no  distinct  features  to  speak  of  ;  frequent  smashing  had 
reduced  them  all  by  gradual  stages  to  a  general  livid,  pulpy  equality. 
A  few  old  scars  diversified  the  otherwise  regular  surface  ;  but  for  those, 
the  whole  face  consisted  just  of  one  raw  red  mass,  with  little  pig's  eyea 
half  obliterated  by  the  swollen  eyelids,  and  a  feeble  mouth  that  opened 
slowly  whenever  it  spoke,  in  slobbering  stupidity.  Nevertheless,  the 
voice,  though  hoarse,  was  still  powerful  and  rasping  ;  it  dealt  in  tonea 
of  angry  command,  and  in  the  vilest  variety  of  low  London  accent. 

"Where  did  you  put  the  gin,  Lizbeth  ? "  the  voice  asked,  with  loud 
querulousness,  as  the  puffy  red  hand  fumbled  round  and  round  on  the 
floor  close  by,  groping  eagerly  after  the  expected  bottle. 

The  child  raised  her  head  to  reply.  "  Put  it  away  where  you  can't 
get  none,  mother,"  she  said.  *'You  ain't  to  'avenomore  gin.  It'a 
the  gin  as  is  a-killing  of  you." 

The  woman  made  no  immediace  answer.  She  groped  around  still 
with  her  hand,  till  she  came  at  last  upon  some  solid  object.  It  was 
the  old  ink-bottle,  that  served  the  office  of  candlestick.  She  took  out 
the  candle  with  tremulous  fingers,  and  held  it  shakily  in  her  left  hand. 
Then,  raising  herself  with  an  eflfort,  in  her  bundle  of  rags,  and  balanc- 
ing the  empty  earthenware  bottle  dexterously  in  her  right,  she  fluag  it 
across  the  room  with  all  her  force,  and  with  deliberate  aim  at  the 
shrinking  child's  unhappy  head. 

The  girl  made  no  attempt  in  any  way  to  shirk  or  dodge  it.  She 
knew  too  well  the  consequences  of  defending  herself.  She  simply 
crouched  closer  than  ever,  and  let  the  frightful  missile  hit  her  on  the 
temple  above  the  left  ear  with  a  blow  that  rang  through  the  whole 
unsteady  attic.  In  a  moment  the  blood  flowed  freely  from  the  wound, 
and  the  child,  half-stunned  and  sobbing  to  herself,  held  up  the  nearest 
rag  of  her  clothes  to  staunch  the  bleeding. 

"  That  warmed  you  up,  I  bet,  anyways,"  the  woman  cried  hoaraelj 
from  the  bed"  Of  rags.  *'  That'll  learn  you  for  to  disobey  your  mother 
another  time,  image.  'Old  that  row,  and  git  me  the  gin,  will  yer  1  If 
you  don't,  I'll  rise  up  from  the  bed,  as  sick  as  I  am — blowed  if  I  won't 
— and  break  every  precious  bone  in  your  cursed  body  1 " 

Lizbeth  rose,  sobbing  at  the  word,  and  crawled  slowly  across  to  the 
bed,  the  wound  on  her  head  still  bleeding  profusely. 

**  Bring  me  that  there  candlestick,"  the  woman  said,  aiming  a  savage 
blow  at  her  cowering  daughter. 

The  child  went  once  more  and  fetched  the  bottle,  with  blood  and  hair 
still  sticking  in  a  clot  to  its  sharp  angle. 

Somewhat  appeased  by  this  prompt  obedience,  the  mother  h>plaoed 
the  candle  in  its  impromptu  socket,  and  said  again,  in  her  qaerulow 
tone,  "  Git  me  the  gin,  Lizbeth." 


46  THE   devil's  DIB. 

Lizbeth  trembled,  but  went  across  the  room,  and  produced  the  bottl« 
from  a  hole  in  the  wall,  where  the  lath  and  plaster  had  peeled  oflF,  and 
formed  a  natural  cave,  or  cupboard. 

The  woman  took  the  bottle  lovingly  in  her  bloated  hands,  poured  out 
a  couple  of  wineglassfuls  of  raw  spirits  into  the  tin  mug  that  Lizbeth 
handed  her,  and  drained  it  off  at  a  single  gulp,  without  one  drop  of 
water  to  qualify  its  fiery  flavour. 

*'  There,"  she  said,  mollified,  as  she  finished  her  drink,  "  that  does 
f  me  more  good  than  nothink.    That  warms  up  the  'eart  and  the  inwards, 
that  does.     There's  no  medicine  like  a  drop  of  Old  Tom.    'Eaven's  best 
gift,  I  calls  it.     It's  all  good  alike,  in  'ealth  or  in  sickness." 

And  she  dozed  off  gradually  in  a  drunken  sleep,  while  poor  little 
Lizbeth,  relieved  for  the  moment,  crept  off  to  her  box  and  mounted 
guard  there,  silent  as  before,  with  her  wounded  scalp  still  sore  and 
bleeding. 

By-and-by,  a  neighbour's  head  popped  above  the  floor  at  the  open 
staircase — a  frizzy  red  head,  adorned  with  endless  twists  of  unkempt 
carroty  hair,  and  a  good-natured  Irishwoman's  face  smiling  broad 
beneath  them. 

'*  An*  how  is  she  now,  honey  ?"  the  good-natured  Irishwoman  asked 
in  a  loud  whisper.  **  Is  it  dhrunk  she  is  agin,  thin  1  Och,  more's  the 
pity  1  The  dhrink'll  be  the  death  of  her,  anyway.  An*  how  do  you 
think  she  does  the  night  now  ?  ** 

"  She*s  awful  bad,*'  Lizbeth  murmured  l#w.  '*  The  fever's  took  her 
worse'n  ever.  I  don't  know  as  she  can  live  long."  And  the  child 
began  to  sob  afresh,  as  if  her  little  heart  would  break. 

**Och,  don't  cry,  thin,  darlint,*'  the  Irishwoman  said,  advancing  a 
■tep  up  the  open  staircase.  **  Sure,  an*  she'll  get  better,  niver  fear. 
She*8  not  the  koind  that*8  given  to  dying.  Why,  whativer  ails  your 
poor  head,  thin  ?  Shell  not  be  afther  sthriking  ye  wid  the  bottle,  will 
Bhe?" 

"  Oh,  don't,  Mrs.  Flynn  1  **  the  child  cried  piteously.  "Don*t  you 
touch  it.  It*s  that  painful.  Poor  dear,  she  took  an'  throw  that  bottle 
at  me." 

Mrs.  Flynn  examined  the  wound  carefully,  and  washed  it  as  well  M 
she  was  able  in  her  existing  state— having  herself  partaken  of  a  dhrop 
of  the  craytur — with  the  dirty  water  in  the  tin  pan.  She  washed  it 
twice,  and  dressed  it  roughly  with  a  wet  rag.  Then,  nodding  farewell 
to  the  little  sentinel,  with  a  good-humoured  smile,  and  many  exhorta- 
tions not  to  take  on  about  it  (as  if  these  things  must  be  expected  every- 
where in  the  coarse  of  nature),  she  disappeared  down  the  steep  steps 
iigain,  and  left  Lizbeth  once  more  alone  with  her  own  reflections. 

It  was  half  an  hour  laker  when  a  man's  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs — 
a  heavy  step,  with  hobnailed  boots — and  a  loud  voice  gave  out  a  bold 
street  crv,  sung  in  swinging  measure  to  a  curious  monotonous  lilting 
sing-song. 

*'  Penny-wink,  penny-wink,  penny-wink,  oh  I  Take  a  pin  ;  stick 
him  in  ;  turn  him  round ;  pull  him  out ;  penny  wink,  penny-wink, 
p«nny<wiuk,  oh  1" 


THE  DEVILS  DIl.  47 

Ifc  was  a  jovial,  rollicking,  brutal  voice,  and  it  resounded  like  a  hearty 
apruarious  echo  throuc^h  the  broken  walls  and  tumbledown  corridon 
of  that  neglected  human  piggery.  A  minute  later,  a  head  and. 
shoulders  hove  in  sight  above  the  open  top  of  the  staircase,  with  a 
wooden  tray  poised  in  very  unstable  equilibrium  above,  and  covered  by 
a  few  dozen  remaining  periwinkles.  The  man  whom  these  appurten- 
ances belonged  was  coarse  and  large,  and  florid  and  brutal-looking,  a 
perfect  type  of  the  burly  blackguard  of  low  London  slums.  He  was 
considerably  drunk  into  the  bargain,  and  he  reeled  into  that  miserable 
attic  room,  with  a  rough  air  of  besotted  good  fellowship  that  seemed 
badly  out  of  place  with  the  starved  and  utterly  woe-begone  condition  of 
the  poor  little  skinny  waif  who  sat  there  cowering  and  crouching  to 
receive  him. 

*'  Well,  Lizbeth,"  the  man  growled  out,  flinging  her  a  small  piece  of 
stale  bread  from  his  pocket  as  one  might  fling  a  bone  to  a  street  dog. 
•'  'Ow's  Sal  ?  Fever  took  her  off  t  Wot's  she  up  to  ?  Dead  yet  ?  eh, 
gal  ? " 

The  child  gnawed  the  dirty  crust  eagerly,  as  a  dog  might  gnaw  it, 
and  answered  with  her  mouth  full  of  dry  bread,  '*  She's  awful  bad, 
father.     She've  took  more  gin,  she  'ave." 

"  She's  a  sight  of  a  long  time  dying,  anyhow,  confound  her  I"  the 
man  grumbled,  laying  down  his  tray,  and  stirring  the  animated  bundle 
of  rags  in  the  comer  with  his  foot,  as  if  it  had  been  a  mere  lifeless 
object. 

The  woman  opened  her  eyes  once  more  sleepily,  and  sat  up  in  her 
rags.  *'  Well,  Bill,"  she  said  in  a  husky  voice,  "  you've  come  home  to 
see  me  die,  'ave  yer  ? " 

Bill  stirred  her  up  a  second  time  with  his  thick  boot.  "  Plaguey 
long  time  you  take  about  it,  anyways,  missus,"  he  muttered  in  a  sulky 
tone.  "  Wot's  the  good  o'  wastin'  one's  'ard  earned  money  on  a  woman 
like  you  ?  If  you  was  worth  any  think,  you'd  ought  to  died  a  dear  week 
ago." 

"  'Ow's  trade  ?"  Lizbeth  interposed  quite  seriously. 

*'  Trade's  bad,"  her  father  responded  with  good-humoured  pessimism. 
*'  This  'ere  depression's  told  on  the  winkle  business  ;  'ardly  earn  enough 
to  get  a  man  a  drink.  Where's  the  gin,  Lizbeth  ?  'And  me  over  the 
bottle  1 " 

Lizbeth  handed  it  over  as  ordered,  and  retired  once  more  to  her 
station  on  the  box. 

"Who's  been  a-drinking  like  this  *ere?"  the  man  cried  angrily, 
regarding  the  bottle  held  up  to  the  light,  and  marking  with  his  thumb 
the  height  of  the  spirit.  '*  Lizbeth,  why  do  yer  go  an'  let  'er  *ave  it? 
Wot's  the  use  of  me  keepin'  yer  and  feedin'  yer  like  a  fightin'  cock  if 
you  don't  exercise  some  kind  of  authority  about  the  'ouse  ?  You  good- 
for-nofthink  varmint,  why  do  you  go  an'  let  'er  'ave  it,  drat  yer  f  Wofc 
do  you  mean  by  it,  eh,  girl  ?  eh,  girl  ?    Wot  do  yer  mean  by  it  ?" 

He  emphasized  each  of  these  hasty  questions  in  his  own  way  by  pull- 
ing the  poor  child'a  thin  red  ears,  and  cufling  her  cheek  at  each  olatue 
of  his  repeated  iuijuiry.    Lizbeth  eobb§d  ftttd  showfd  her  he«cU    **  8h« 


48  THE  devil's   DIB. 

made  me  give  it 'er,"  she  answered,  cowering.  *'She  throwed  fche 
bottle  at  me  and  cut  my  *ead  open," 

Her  father  turned  in  drunken  indignation,  half  real,  half  humorous, 
to  the  bed  where  the  sick,  woman  lay.  "  Oh,  you're  a  pretty  one,"  he 
cried  in  a  tone  of  dogged  and  brutal  good-humour,  draining  off  a  mug- 
ful of  the  gin  as  he  spoke.  "  You're  a  beauty,  you  are,  an'  no  mistake, 
missus,  to  go  treatin'  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  an'  my  daughter  that 
way  I  But  I'll  lam  you  for  to  meddle  with  my  child  ;  oh  yes,  I  will  1 
I'll  do  for  yer  1  I'll  murder  yer,  Sal,  you  see  if  I  don't  1  Pretty  sort  of 
a  wife  you  are,  lyin'  at  'ome  'ere,  lazy  in  bed,  for  a  'ard-workin'  British 
workin'-man  in  the  penny-winkle  business  1  But  I'll  improve  yer  I 
I'll  smash  yer  1  Bust  my  bones,  if  I  don't  swing  for  yer,  my  beauty  I  " 
He  took  up  the  empty  bottle  that  had  held  the  gin,  and  with  his 
powerful  arm  raised  it  aloft ;  then,  in  mere  gleeful  boisterous  drunken 
recklessness,  he  dashed  it  down  with  all  his  force  upon  the  woman's 
head.  Sal  put  up  her  arm  hastily  to  avert  it.  The  bottle  broke  into  a 
hundred  fragments,  and  the  blood  spurted  out  in  one  hideous  splash 
from  a  dozen  separate  horrid  gashes  on  the  wretched  woman's  bloated 
face  and  neck  and  shoulders.  At  the  sight,  Lizbeth  gave  a  loud  scream 
of  horror  and  alarm,  and  rushed  over  with  outstretched  arms  to  screen 
and  protect  the  unfortunate  creature  as  far  as  her  thin  little  body  would 
allow  her.  But  Bill  had  finished  his  work  now,  and  attempted  no 
further  aot  of  violence.  His  brutality  was  not  sullen  or  vindictive  ;  it 
belonged  rather  to  the  easy-going,  rollicking  order  of  lawlessness.  He 
merely  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  singing  low  to  himself  in  a 
mocking  voice  his  usual  street  cry  of  "Penny- wink,  penny- wink,  oh  I  " 
and  smiling  benignly  at  the  awful  picture  of  blood  and  misery  wrought 
by  his  action  among  the  rags  in  the  corner. 

As  a  rule,  screams,  however  loud  or  frequent,  attracted  but  little 
attention  iii  that  vile  lodging-house.  But  Lizbeth's  one  wild  scream  of 
terror  was  a  scream  of  a  totally  diflferent  category — the  sort  of  scream 
which  the  inhabitants  of  the  tenement  immediately  recognized  by 
native  instinct  as  calling  for  the  necessity  of  police  intervention.  In 
another  minute  the  miserable  attic  was  thronged  full  of  inquiring  men 
and  women,  half-clad  or  wrapped  in  dirty  shawls,  some  of  whom  held 
up  Sal  in  bed  and  endeavoured  feebly  to  staunch  her  bleeding  ;  while 
others  eagerly  interrogated  the  immovable  Bill  or  poor  cowering  and 
almost  speechless  Lizbeth.  Bill,  however,  firm  upon  the  constitutional 
right  of  every  Englishman  to  answer  no  incriminating  question,  con- 
tented himself,  unmoved  and  unconcerned,  with  still  humming  "  Penny- 
wink  ;  penny-wink,  oh  ! "  and  politely  requesting  his  attentive  fellow- 
lodgers  to  "  fetch  the  police  for  that  there  intoxicated  female  over 
yonder. " 

Before  long,  the  police  indeed  arrived,  three  constables  strong,  and 
immediately  cleared  the  decks  for  action.  The  crowd  of  ragged  men 
and  »vomen  all  hurried  forward  with  anxious  faces,  every  one  talking  at 
ouce  in  a  Babel  of  voices,  and  eager  each  to  give  their  own  version  of 
the  strange  afiair  of  which,  of  course,  they  knew,  and  could  know 
f>b9ulutel;y  nothing.    The  policemen  waved  them  quietly  aside,  and 


THB   devil's   DIB.  49 

with  professional  instinct  proceeded  in  a  sober  business-like  way  to 
collar  the  unresisting  Bill,  who  stood  there  still  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  inanely  smiling  at  the  havoc  he  had  wrought,  and  apparently 
even  more  jolly  than  ever.  Two  of  them  went  out  and  fetched  a 
stretcher.  "Take  the  woman  to  the  Middlesex  Hospital,"  the  leader 
said,  in  his  official  way.  One  constable  and  two  or  three  of  the  lodgers 
took  up  the  stretcher.  The  woman  opened  her  eyes  as  they  lifted  her 
up.  "  Bill,"  she  cried  hoarsely  through  her  set  teeth,  with  a  savage 
oath  unfit  to  be  recorded,  "  you  shall  swing  for  this  I  You  shall  1  You 
shall  swing  for  it,  you  beggar  I  " 

"  Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  I  did,"  the  man  muttered,  gazing  back  in 
her  face  with  imperturbable  brutal  carelessness.  "  That'd  be  just  like 
the  law  of  England  now  1  'Ang  me  for  smashing  a  woman  to-night  as 
*ud  'ave  to  'ave  died  anyhow  to-morrer.  That's  wot  the  beaks  calls 
administration  of  justice  I  Justice,  indeed  1  I'd  justice  'em,  wigs  an' 
all,  the  'ole  blooming  addle-'eaded  lot  of  *em  !  "  And  he  laughed  a 
loud  half-tipsy  laugh,  while  he  submitted  to  be  led  away  quietly  and 
unresistingly  between  the  two  stout  and  resolute-looking  policemen. 

As  for  Lizbeth,  she  rose  from  beside  the  bed  of  rags  when  they  took 
her  mother,  and  followed  the  stretcher  close  like  a  dog,  till  she  reached 
the  steps  of  the  Middlesex  HospitaL 


OHAPTSR  X. 

That  evening,  in  Harry  Chichele's  comfortable  room  at  the  liliddle- 
sex  Hospital,  Harry  and  Mohammad  Ali  sat  late  by  the  fireside  dis- 
cussing the  very  remarkable  results  that  Harry  had  deduced,  by  the 
aid  of  the  microscope,  from  his  study  of  the  germs  in  the  polluted  water 
from  Santander,  washed  ashore  in  the  cask  from  the  wreck  of  the  SeO' 
mew. 

**Yes,  the  rabbits,  every  one  of  them,  died  within  twenty-four 
hours,"  Hairy  Chichele  remarked  with  much  aniuiation.  '*  I'm  culti- 
vating their  germs  now  in  a  new  medium,  after  Pasteur's  method,  and 
after  my  own.  My  own,  as  I  suspected,  is  infinitely  superior — infinitely 
superior.     It  modifies  the  virus  far  more  perfectly." 

It  was  a  curious  place,  that  neat  private  sitting-room  of  Harry 
Chichele's.  The  Begum,  whom  he  had  brought  back,  after  all,  in  her 
box  from  Cornwall,  despite  the  protestations  of  the  Great  Western  Rail- 
way Company  and  its  accredited  agents,  could  have  had  no  reasonable 
cause  to  complain  of  the  want  of  that  congenial  poisonous  atmosphere 
which  Mohammad  Ali  had  so  confidently  promised  her.  The  whole 
place  fairly  reeked  of  infusion,  germs,  viruses,  and  poisons.  It  was, 
m  fact,  the  private  laboratory  of  an  able  and  enthusiastic  scientific 
poison  fancier. 

M^mmad  Ali  bad  jiut  returned  to  town,  six  weeks  Uter  bbui 


so  THl  DIVIL'B   DIl. 

Harry  Chichele,  after  a  round  of  visits  to  country  houses,  among  old 
friends  and  college  acquaintances.  He  had  been  to  stop  with  Ivan 
Koyle,  among  others,  at  a  place  in  Warwickshire,  where  he  had  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Seeta  Mayne,  the  well-known  novelist,  sister  of  the 
ill-fated  owner  of  the  Seamew.  Ali  had  taken  rather  a  dielike  at  first 
sight  to  Seeta  Mayne,  he  knew  not  why.  She  was  one  of  those  terrible 
women,  he  said  to  Harry,  who  oppress  you  at  once  witlj  a  burdensome 
sense  of  their  cleverness  and  their  greatness.  A  woman  to  admire, 
indeed,  from  a  safe  distance  ;  better  known  in  her  books  than  her 
proper  person.  "  So  different  from  Miss  Tregellas,"  Ali  added  with  a 
sigh,  looking  hard  at  Harry,  and  ruminating  inwardly. 

"  I  should  like  to  meet  her,  all  the  same,"  Harry  answered  off  hand, 
rising  from  his  velvet-covered  easy-chair,  and  opening  the  window  half 
an  inch,  as  he  candidly  remarked,  to  let  in  a  little  of  the  brown  fog, 
and  let  out  the  fumes  of  that  nasty  Calabar  bean  he  had  been  experi- 
menting upon.  "  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  admire  her  books. 
She's  a  wonderful  delineator  of  human  nature."  t 

A  decanter  of  pale  wine  stood  upon  the  table,  with  a  paper  slip 
pasted  as  label  across  the  outside.  Mohammad  Ali  took  it  up  carelessly 
in  his  hand.  '*  I  don't  mind  taking  a  glass  of  your  sherry,"  he  said, 
pouring  it  out,  '*the  Koran  to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding.  Of  all 
the  Prophet's  laws,  I've  always  found  that  the  easiest  broken."  And 
he  poured  himself  out  a  glassful  with  casual  ease,  into  a  wine-glass  that 
stood  beside  it  on  the  table. 

*'  Sherry  1 "  Harry  Chichele  cried,  in  a  tone  of  alarm,  rushing  for- 
ward just  in  time  to  prevent  his  friend  from  raising  it  to  his  lips. 
**  Goodness  gracious,  Ali,  what  in  the  name  of  heaven  are  you  doing  or 
thinking  of  1  Never,  for  your  life,  eat  or  drink  anything,  however 
seemingly  harmless,  that  you  find  lying  about  loose  in  this  laboratory 
of  mine.  The  very  cups  and  saucers  are  poisonous.  That's  suspected 
sherry,  sent  in  last  night  for  my  critical  opinion  by  the  Government 
analyst.  A  barrister  fellow  over  at  Reigate  popped  off  suddenly  day 
before  yesterday — you  must  have  seen  the  case  in  the  Times.  His  wife 
and  he  weren't  on  the  best  of  terms,  it  seems.  Question  of  an  actress 
—the  usual  story.  He  went  to  bed  at  night  happy  and  jolly,  and  woke 
up  early  next  morning  to  find  himself  dead  for  the  last  three  hours.  If 
you'd  drunk  that  glassful  off,  I  dare  say,  Ali,  you'd  have  been  as  dead 
by  this  time  as  the  dog  and  the  barrister." 

"Very  likely,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  with  his  usual  Eastern 
calmness  of  demeanour,  as  his  friend  touched  the  electric  bell  at  his  side 
for  a  glass  of  sherry  that  was  not  suspected.  "That  shows  that  the 
Prophet  was  right,  after  all.  Avoid  all  appearance  of  evil.  You've 
got  some  new  things  here,  Harry,  since  I  went  away,  I  see  by  the 
labels." 

**0h,  pretty  well,"  Harry  Chichele  answered  in  the  half  affected 
depreciatory  voice  of  the  connoisseur  who  exhibits  his  treasures  to  an 
intelligent  spectator. 

\     Mohammad  Ali  paced  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  critical  air  before 
kthe  mysterious  jars  an4  cupboards.     -*  Canadian  poison  ivy."  he  mus- 


THE  devil's  DIB.  51 

mured  softly,  reading  the  labels  ;  **  that's  new  now,  isn't  it  ?  Ah,  yes, 
I  thought  80 ;  those  sumach  extracts  are  so  extremely  interesting.  Thorn- 
apple  again — four  fresh  varieties.  I  saw  your  paper  about  those  in 
Nature.  Yield  an  insipid  narcotic  alkaloid  allied  to  atropine.  Beauti- 
ful, beautiful  1  Your  experiments  and  results  were  exceedingly  pretty. 
Have  you  over  noticed,  by  the  way,  that  deadly  nip;htshade  grows  no- 
wrhere  in  England  except  about  the  ruins  of  your  old  monasteries  ? 
Speaks  badly  for  the  morality  of  the  mediaeval  fathers  that,  doesn't  it  ? 
Unless,  indeed,  they  only  used  it  for  the  painless  removal  of  Jews, 
Turks,  heretics,  and  infidels." 

"  Of  whom  you  would  have  been  one,"  Harry  Chichele  interposed, 
smiling. 

"Of  whom  I  should  have  been  one,  no  doubt,"  the  Mohammedan 
went  on  with  grave  composure.  "  The  monks  would  have  converted 
me  with  great  pleasure,  from  the  error  of  my  ways,  at  least  into  a 
corpse,  if  not  into  a  Christian.  What's  this  here  ?  American  hemlock 
— paralyzes  the  muscles  of  respiration,  I  fancy.  Manchmeal,  Indian 
hemp,  Madagascar  Ordeal  Poison.  What's  the  antidote  ?  They  must 
have  something  the  medicine  men  give  them  to  counteract  the  evil 
effects  of  that  whenever  necessary,  or  it  couldn't  possibly  be  used  for 
an  ordeal.  All  ordeals  admit  of  dodging,  that's  what  they're  for ;  the 
medicine  men  always  work  the  oracle." 

"  Of  course,"  Harry  Chichele  answered,  pouring  out  the  unsuspicious 
sherry. 

*'  Upas  tree,"  Ali  went  on,  running  them  over.  "  That's  new,  again. 
I've  seen  that  in  India.  Affects  the  spinal  cord  instantaneously,  and 
causes  death  by  universal  tetanus.  And  here's  aconitine,  the  same  as 
in  the  sherry  there.  Whatever  did  your  barrister  go  and  use  such  stuff 
as  that  for,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  Harry  answered  lightly.  *'  The  more  fool  he.  A 
man  must  be  a  fool  in  the  nineteenth  century  if  he  has  reasons  for  wish- 
ing to  get  rid  of  anybody,  to  go  and  do  anything  so  clumsy  as  poison 
him.  Poison  can  be  always  detected  nowadays.  And  especially  when 
there  are  so  many  other  better  ways  now  possible  that  absolutely  and 
utterly  defy  detection." 

*'What  ways?"  Mohammad  Ali  asked  glancing  up  hastily,  with 
some  curiosity. 

"Oh,  physiological  and  pathological  ways,  I  mean,  of  course.  Why, 
if  you  or  I,  who  are  practised  medical  hands,  had  any  good  grounds  for 
wishing  to  disembarrass  our  career  of  any  obnoxious  person  or  persons, 
do  you  mean  to  say  we  could'nt  find  a  thousand  ways  ready  to  hand  for 
dexterously  removing  them  without  arousing  undue  suspicion  ?  Of 
course  we  could,  my  dear  fellow,  put  them  out  of  the  way  as  soon  as 
look  at  them. 

"/couldn't,  thank  heaven,"  Ali,  answered,  drawing  a  long  breath. 

"And  what's  more,  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  able,  either.    Elnowledge  of 

the  means  of  crime  is  a  dangerous  thing — even  for  a  Moslem." 

^^  "  But  not  fcr  the  emancipated,"  Harry  Chichele  interposed  airily. 

'  The  masses,  of  course,  ought  misuBe  their  infanaatlQii — they're  not 


62  THE  devil's  DIB. 

to  be  trusted  with  knowledge  like  that ;  but  the  emancipated  would 
never  dream  of  employing  it  except  in  the  interests  of  humanity  and  of 
science.  Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you  about  these  lovely  germ  researches  of 
mine,  Ali.  I've  arrived  at  really  wonderful  results.  I'm  just  on  the 
very  verge,  do  you  know,  of  establishing  a  totally  new  conception  of 
the  entire  question." 

Mohammad  Ali  seated  himself,  all  ears,  beside  the  table,  while  Harry 
Chichele  pulled  forward  his  microscope,  and  drew  from  his  drawers  a 
number  of  slides  and  several  sheets  of  pencil  diagrams.  In  two  minutes, 
the  pair  of  enthusiasts  were  deep  in  a  profound  professional  discussion, 
Harry  Chichele  demonstring  with  immense  ardour,  while  Mohammad 
Ali,  attentive  and  eager,  listened  and  criticized  with  obvious  ad- 
miration. 

At  liist  the  Indian  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  an  air  of  complete 
though  half-unwilling  conviction.  *'  You've  proved  your  point,  Harry," 
he  cried  ;  "not  a  doubt  about  it;  you've  fairly  proved  it.  There's 
only  one  thing  you  want  now,  and  that's  a  patient  who  diei  in  the  final 
collapsing  stage  of  lodging-house  fever.  If  the  germs  there — microbes 
or  bacteria,  or  whatever  else  you  choose  to  call  them — do  really  exhibit 
this  jointed  condition  which  you  suspect,  then  your  theory  of  their 
origin  from  fungoid  sporules  will  be  simply  and  solely  a  mathematical 
demonstration.  It's  a  great  discovery — a  splendid  discovery.  You're 
lucky  to  have  made  it.  Your  series  of  slides  is  just  magnificent — 
especially  the  germs  from  the  cholera-water  and  the  rinderpest  in 
cattle." 

"  Yes,"  Harry  Chichele  answered  in  a  voice  of  modest  self-con- 
gratulation. **  I  flatter  myself  it's  a  neat  demonstration.  I'm  only 
waiting  for  that  final  test — a  case  of  which  is  sure  to  drop  in  before 
long — and  then  I  shall  read  a  paper  on  the  subject  before  the  Royal 
Society.  I'm  anxious  about  this  paper,  and  about  the  result  of  the 
investigation,  because,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think,  Ali,  it'll  make 
my  fortune.  And,  as  you  know,  I  have  certain  special  and  exceptional 
reasons  for  wishing  just  now  to  get  my  fortune  made." 

The  Indian  smiled  a  grave  smile  of  uneasy  acquiescence,  and  glanced 
at  the  pretty  cabinet  photograph  of  Olwen  Tregellas,  framed  in  a  dark 
blue  velvet  mount,  which  hung  above  the  centre  of  Harry  Chichele's 
mantlepiece. 

Harry  followed  him  closely  with  his  eyes.  *'  Of  course,"  he  went  on, 
perceiving  the  drift  of  Mohammad  All's  thoughts,  "  I  could  marry  even 
now,  if  I  chose,  on  my  own  little  means — my  grandmother's  money — 
which  would  be  enough  to  support  us  in  *  genteel  economy,'  as  the 
porter  calls  it ;  but  1  don't  want  to  do  that.  I  don't  want  to  impose 
upon  my  wife  a  *  genteel  economy.'  I  want  to  make  myself  a  place  in 
the  world  first,  and  make  it  a  place  fit  for  Olwen  herself  to  occupy." 
He  called  her  "  Ohven,"  quite  unconcernedly  ow,  and  it  grated  on 
Mohammad  All's  ear  to  hi.>ar  him.  **  Now,  if  I  an  succeed  in  proving 
the  truth  of  my  theory,  I  shall  have  put  myself  at  once  in  the  very 
first  ranks  of  the  profession,  shan't  I  ?  Since  Jenner  discovered  vac- 
cination, in  fact,  no  bigger  thing's  been  done  in  xnedicinQ  thftQ  this  nevr 


THS  dbyil's  dis.  53 

hypothesis.  And  for  Olwen'i  sake,  I  should  like  to  do  it  I  should 
like  to  think  I  had  a  chance  of  ending  by  becoming  some  day  President 
of  the  Royal  College  of  Physicians,  and  making  my  wife  into  Lady 
Chichele. 

*'  I  hare  no  doubt  at  all  you  will,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered  abstrac- 
tedly. **  You're  cut  out  for  it.  It's  your  natural  goal.  You're  by  far 
the  ablest  man  in  the  profession  that  I  know  of.  Harry,  did  Miss 
Tregellas  give  you  that  portrait  of  herself  that  Royle  did  for  her  ?  " 

'*No,"  Harry  replied,  glancing  once  more  with  a  depreciating  look 
at  the  photograph  on  the  mantlepiece,  "or  else  it'd  been  standing 
where  that  wretched  likeness  does  now  ;  for  I  must  say  Royle  caught 
her  expression  and  her  graceful  figure  quite  admirably — a  most  life-like 
portrait.  But  Olwen  didn't  think  she  ought  to  let  me  have  it — at 
present — she  said.  Royle  seemed  a  little  stand-ofiish  about  it,  you  re- 
member :  spoke  rudely  to  me,  not  to  say  foolishly  ;  and  she  felt  aa  if 
she  were  in  honour  bound  to  keep  it  herself,  as  he  gave  it  to  her  and 
refused  it  to  me,  until — well,  until,  in  short,  it  naturally  comes  into 
my  possession,  with  everything  else  that  belongs  to  Olwen.  She  was 
quite  right,  and  I  perfectly  agreed  with  her  ;  but  I  must  say  1  should 
have  liked  all  the  same  to  have  had  that  picture." 

Mohammad  Ali  drummed  upon  the  table.  **  Your  grandmother's 
money,"  he  said,  reverting.  "  You  get  your  income  from  her,  do  you? 
She  was  a  Peyton,  if  I  recollect  aright — a  Yorkshire  Peyton.  Harry, 
do  you  happen  to  know  anything  about  your  grandmother's  family  ?  " 

•*  Well,  not  very  much,  if  you  ask  me  that.  I'm  anything  but  curi«KiB 
in  these  matters.  Genealogies  have  precious  little  interest  for  me.  I 
am  what  I  am.  I  care  very  little  about  who  went  before  me.  Science 
disregards  families  and  pedigrees." 

"  You  are  what  you  are  1  No,  no,  Harry,"  the  Mussulman  cried, 
with  a  sudden  gesture  of  disapprobation.  **  You  speak  neither  like  a 
Moslem  nor  a  scient  fie  man.  Has  not  the  whole  burden  of  our  own 
age  been  simply  that — hereditary  genius,  hereditary  insanity,  heredi- 
tary morals,  hereditary  crime  ?  You  fancy  you  stand  alone  in  the 
world  ;  that  you  can  break  with  the  past  and  create  the  future.  You 
think  you  can  make  yourself  what  you  choose  yourself.  My  dear  fel- 
low, you're  grievously  mistaken.  We're  each  of  us  but  a  new  incarna- 
tion of  our  fathers  and  mothers — a  fresh  creator,  as  our  Hindoos  would 
call  it,  of  the  ancestral  spirit.  It  behoves  us  all  to  know  somewhat  of 
our  progenitors  ;  we  are  bone  of  their  bone,  blood  of  their  blood,  and 
their  sins  shall  be  visited  on  us — aye,  and  repeated  by  us,  too,  in  our 
own  persons— unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation." 

At  that  very  moment,  as  Harry  opened  his  lips  to  reply,  a  gentle  tap 
sounded  upon  the  door,  and  a  nurse,  in  her  white  cap  and  regulation 
apron,  putting  in  her  head,  said  briefly,  **  Doctor,  you're  wanted,  if 
you  please,  in  the  fever  ward.  A  complicated  case.  Fever  and  acci- 
dent." 

The  two  men,  disturbed  at  the  news,  ran  upstairs  hastily,  and  arrived 
at  once  in  the  crowded  fever  ward.  On  a  cot  at  the  far  end,  a  ghastly 
light  met  their  eyes — a  woman  with  a  bloated  pulpy-looking  face,  aU 


64  THB  devil's  DIB. 

hacked  and  cut  about  the  cheeks  and  forehead,  with  o2)en  wounds,  still 
raw  and  red  and  bleeding  faintly.  The  surgeon  in  attendance  stood  at 
the  head  of  the  bed.  "Good  evening,  Chichele,"  he  said,  as  they 
entered.  '*  Good  evening,  Ali.  Why,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  back  again 
in  England.  I've  sent  for  you,  Chichele,  to  look  at  this  woman — new 
case — just  admitted.  Sarah  Wilcox,  they  give  her  name,  from  a  low 
lodging  den  in  the  slums  of  Marylebone.  It's  a  police  case,  you  see, 
of  the  ordinary  character  ;  but  it's  very  complicated — very  complicated. 
Man's  assaulted  his  wife  with  an  empty  gin  bottle,  and  cut  her  all  over 
the  head  and  shoulders  with  the  broken  pieces.  At  the  same  time  the 
woman's  dying  already — in  the  last  stage  of  lodging-house  fever.  It's 
a  neat  forensic  question,  as  you  perceive  ;  and  1  shall  want  you  to  help 
me  in  watching  the  thing  through  carefully,  for,  if  the  patient  dies  of 
the  wounds,  of  course,  or  of  gangrene  or  blood-poisoning  arising  from 
them,  why,  then^  as  you  know,  it'll  be  wilful  murder,  or,  at  least,  man- 
slaughter. But  if  she  only  dies  of  the  fev  er  itself,  without  death  hav- 
ing been  in  any  way  accelerated  by  the  row,  why,  then,  it's  merely  the 
common  case  of  aggravated  assault.  We  shall  have  to  be  very  accurate 
in  observing  it,  for  the  question's  almost  sure  to  be  raised  sooner  or 
later  before  a  jury." 

Harry  Chichele  looked  down  on  the  woman  with  unfeigned  and 
unconcealed  delight.  "I'll  take  every  care  of  her,"  he  said,  "every 
possible  care  of  her,  you  may  be  sure,  Macpherson.  The  case,  as  it 
happens,  is  just  one  I  was  anxious  to  observe  in  connection  with  these 
new  germ  researches  of  mine.  Ali,  this  is  really  a  wonderful  bit  of 
luck — some  people  would  call  it  distinctly  providential.  The  very 
thing  we  wanted  to  see.     A  case  of  collapse  in  lodging-house  fever." 

They  went  to  work  speedily  with  the  usual  precautions,  and  soon  had 
settled  the  unconscious  patient  fairly  in  her  bed.  She  was,  indeed,  a 
loathsome  object  now  to  look  upon — her  livid  face  all  scarred  with 
wounds  and  covered  with  bandages,  her  swollen  eyelids  white  and  puflFy, 
her  thick  lips  almost  black  with  congestion,  and  her  breath  coming  and 
going  from  her  heaving  chest  with  stertorous  distinctness.  It  needed 
all  a  doctor's  resolution  and  experience  to  make  any  man  handle  gently 
Buch  a  hideous  caricature  of  feminine  humanity. 

**  She's  the  very  case  I  wanted,"  Harry  Chichele  murmured  to  Ali 
again,  as  they  finished  their  task  and  paused  for  a  moment.  '*  As  soon 
as  she's  dead,  she'll  give  me  the  exact  opportunity  needed  to  complete 
the  outline  of  my  new  theory. " 

"  But  suppose  she  doesn't  die,  though  ?  "  Mohammad  Ali  put  iu  with 
malicious  dryness. 

Harry  Chichele  looked  up  at  him  sharply.  **  But  she  wiU  die,"  he 
answered,  in  a  short,  quick,  decisive  tone.  "There's  no  *  suppose'  at 
at  all  about  the  matter.  When  a  patient  reaches  such  a  stage  as  this, 
the  thing's  as  good  as  settled  already.  Miracles  are  out  of  date  nowa- 
days. The  onlv  question  is,  which  cause  will  she  die  of — accident  or 
the  fever.  I  inall  hold  the  post-mortem  myself  at  ten  to-morrow. 
Nurse,  whatever  hour  of  day  or  night  this  case  goes  off,  send  down  %i 
once,  please,  and  have  me  knocked  up  to  certify  cause  of  death  imme^i- 


tarn  DSYiL'i  D1&  §5 


'  CHAPTER  Xt 

It  was  long  past  twelve  when  Harry  Chichele  lounged  down  to  the 
big  front  door  of  the  Middlesex  Hospital  to  see  Mohammad  AH  safely 
off  the  premises. 

On  t'lie  stone  stops,  an  altercation  was  in  full  progress,  in  loud  tones, 
between  the  stout  porter  and  a  bundle  of  rags  that  lay  in  a  huddled 
heap  beside  the  portico  pillars. 

'*Git  up,  will  you,  and  go  oflf  'ome,"  the  porter  exclaimed  in  his 
angriest  voice.  "  You  ain't  no  call  to  go  sleepin* 'ere.  If  you  don't 
git,  out,  I'll  whistle  for  the  police  for  you." 

The  bundle  of  rags  moaned  piteously.  *'  I  ain't  got  no  'oma  to  go  to 
now,"  it  replied  in  childish  misery.  *'  Father,  he's  run  in,  and  took  ofl 
to  the  lock-up  for  murderin'  mother  ;  an*  mother  she's  inside  'ere  where 
they've  took  *er,  a-dying  in  the  'ospital." 

"That  ain't  no  business  of  mine,  I  tell  you,"  the  stout  porter 
rejoined,  with  official  dignity.  "  If  you  ain't  got  no  'ome  to  go  to,  why, 
then  apply  to  the  parochial  authorities  for  relief — git  took  into  the 
union,  you  know — but  don't  go  incommodin'  the  committee  an'  the 
public  by  sleepin'  out  on  the  steps  of  the  'ospital." 

Harry  Chichele  ran  down  bareheaded  to  inspect  the  poor  little  terri- 
fied morsel  of  humanity.  He  raised  up  the  bundle  of  rags  in  his  hands 
with  gentle  forbearance  and  an  entire  absence  of  that  involuntary  ap- 
pearance of  disgust  which  most  of  us  display,  almost  by  instinct, 
towards  very  dirty  and  tattered  children.  Old  experience  in  a  London 
hospital  had  taught  him  long  since  to  accept  dirt  in  a  philosophical 
spiiit  as  a  natural  concomitant  of  the  residuum  of  our  species.  He 
clasped  the  poor  thin  little  hand  good-naturedly  in  his  own,  and  asked 
tho  small  outcast  in  a  quiet  soothing  voice  where  she  lived  and  what 
she  wanted. 

'*  I  don't  live  nowheres,"  the  child  answered,  *'  and  I  want  mother." 

Harry  Chichele  looked  more  closely  at  the  girl's  head.  "  Why, 
goodness  gracious,"  he  said  in  a  shocked  tone,  **  what's  this  ?  You've 
got  a  bad  wound  on  it,  little  woman — a  wound  that  ought  to  be  dressed 
at  once.  The  idea  of  your  exposing  yourself  on  a  night  like  this  to  the 
open  air  with  such  a  wound  as  that  upon  you  1  Why,  it's  enough  to 
kill  you  outright.  Come  in  at  once,  there's  a  good  girl,  and  let's  see 
what  we  can  do  for  you." 

Surprised  at  the  unexpected  kindness  of  his  manner,  Lizbeth  fol- 
lowed him,  nothing  loth,  up  the  big  steps,  and  through  the  lighted 
corridor,  into  Harry  Chichele's  own  cosy  and  comfortable  sitting-room. 

*'  Are  you  hungry,  little  one  I  "  Harry  asked  going  straight  to  the 
point  with  tho  first  great  need  of  starving  humanity. 

The  gluld  nodded  an  eager  tkMout.     ifu  Ixod  hit  the  bull's-^ye.    Sht 


66  THE  devil's  mm, 

was  far  too  frightened  by  the  light  and  glare  to  open  her  lips,  but  she 
understood  at  once  that  a  rare  prospect  of  food  loomed  visibly  in  the 
middle  distance. 

"  Sit  down,  my  child,"  Harry  said,  pushing  her  a  chair  beside  the 
centre  table,  with  a  kindly  gesture.  The  girl  seated  herself  with  silent 
awe  upon  the  extreme  edge.  Harry  went  over  to  the  cheffonier  in  the 
corner,  and  brought  out,  one  after  another,  a  cold  tongue,  a  box  of 
biscuits,  a  cut  sponge  cake,  and  some  apricot  jam.  Lizbeth's  eyes 
glittered  strangely.  Harry  had  seen  the  same  sort  of  glitter  before. 
He  knew  where.  In  the  eyes  of  the  greater  carnivores  at  the  Zoo,  when 
their  daily  dole  of  meat  is  being  served  out  to  them. 

He  cut  her  a  slice  or  two  of  the  tongue,  laid  it  on  a  plate,  and  gave 
it  to  the  child  with  a  knife  and  fork.  She  took  them  up  so  awkwardly, 
and  with  such  evident  doubt,  that  Harry  saw  at  once  she  had  never 
handled  those  dangerous  implements  of  advanced  civilization  in  her  life 
before.  "  I've  no  bread  in  the  house,"  he  said  apologetically,  '*boI 
must  ask  you  kind'y  to  put  up  with  biscuits,"  and  as  he  spoke  he 
handed  her  a  couple.  The  child  stuflfed  one  into  her  mouth  whole, 
with  a  huge  piece  of  tongue  to  keep  it  company,  and  appeared  for 
the  moment  absolutely  lost  in  supreme  and  unutterable  ectasies  of 
happiness. 

She  ate  a  supper  that  fully  satisfied  Harry  Chichele's  benevolent 
intentions,  from  tongue  and  biscuits  to  sponge  cake  and  apricot  jam  ; 
and  when  she  had  quite  finished,  he  sat  her  in  a  chair  beside  the  blazing 
hearth,  and  examined  the  wound  on  her  head  with  closer  attention. 
After  a  short  examination,  he  rang  the  bell.  "  Send  a  nurse  here,"  he 
said  to  the  sen'ant. 

The  nurse  came  with  the  promptitude  of  a  big  organization.  "Nurse," 
Harry  Chichele  began,  "  I  want  you  to  take  this  poor  little  thing  away 
and  cut  her  hair  off.  Cut  it  all  off  quite  close  to  the  head,  and  give 
her  a  bath,  and  then — well,  then,  what  can  we  do  for  her  ?  We  can't 
put  her  back  into  her  rags  again,  can  we  ? " 

•*  Is  she  a  patient,  doctor  ?"  the  nurse  inquired. 

"No,"  Harry  Chichele  answered  promptly.  *' She'^s  here  as  my 
friend.  1  want  to  see  to  the  wound  on  her  head  privately.  Could  you 
get  anything  in  the  way  of  clothes  to  rig  her  up  in  ?  " 

"  I've  no  doubt  we  could  borrow  some,"  the  nurse  replied  with 
official  coolness.  "  Come  along  with  me,  child.  We'll  do  our  best  for 
her." 

Lizbeth  loitered  as  if  loth  to  go.  **  Where's  mother  ?"  she  asked  at 
last,  beginning  to  sob  again  with  the  fresh  strength  the  unwonted  food 
and  drink  had  given  her.     ' '  I  want  to  ^o  and  see  mother." 

"Is  your  mother's  name  Sarah  Wilcox  1"  Harry  asked,  sympa- 
thetically. 

'  *  Yes,"  the  child  answered,  beginning  to  cry.  "  Leastways,  it's  Sal, 
an'  Mrs.  Wilcox." 

*'  Well,  your  mother's  upstairs,  then,"  Harry  replied  with  soothing 
calmness.  "She's  under  my  care,  and  I'm  the  doctor  of  this  hospital. 
Bhe'i  been  put  to  bed  in  a  nice  warm  cot^  and  her  woundi  have  been 


THB  DETIL'8  filB.  57 

dressecl,  and  she's  fear*  <jvery thing  she  could  possibly  want,  and  now 
Bhe's  sleeping.  Oo  along  with  nurse,  and  do  as  she  tells  you ;  and 
you  shall  see  mother  the  very  first  thing  to-morrow  morning." 

'*  Thank  you,"  the  child  said  simply.  So  much  kindness  fairly  took 
her  breath  away.  She  had  never  met  anything  like  it  in  her  life 
before. 

She  went  with  the  nurse  very  reluctantly,  and  followed  her  into  the 
matron's  room. 

"  Who's  this  ? "  the  matron  asked,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

The  nurse  tossed  her  head  superciliously.     *'  Oh,  only  a  gutter-child," 
^^le  answered  with  a  coarse  laugh.     '  *  Another  of  Dr.  Chiohele's  philan- 
'Othropic  ideas.     He's  always  full  of  his  fads  and  his  fancies. " 

In  half  an  hour  Li^beth  returned  again,  an  odd  little  figure  indeed, 
crashed,  and  cropped,  and  queerly  rigged  ou^'  in  var.ous  collected 
urtioles  of  clothing,  all  of  them  more  or  less  too  large  for  her.  borrowed 
here  and  there  among  the  different  nurses.  Harry  Chichele  smiling  at 
her  metamorphosis,  dressed  her  wound  with  great  care,  and  made  it 
beav^tifuUy  cool  and  comfortable. 

*'  She  must  sleep  hero  somewhere,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone  to  the 
nurse,  when  he  had  finished.  **  We  must  make  her  up  a  rough  bed 
somehow  on  the  sofa." 

They  made  it  up,  and  laid  her  down  there,  wrapped  round  in  a  rug, 
and  in  her  new  clothes  just  as  sAe  stood,  and  in  ten  minutes  more  the 
poor  gutter-child,  wearied  out  with  pain  and  with  the  day's  events,  and 
filled  with  unwonted  meat  and  drink,  was  lying  sound  asleep  on  her 
improvised  couch  in  the  deep  unbroken  sleep  of  childhood. 

She  never  opened  her  eyes  again  till  next  morning,  when  the  servant 
cami3  in  to  lay  the  table  for  Harry  Chichele's  breakfast.  Such  a  break- 
fast 1  Rich  beyond  all  the  dreams  of  esturian  avarice  !  Big  brown 
sausages,  and  honey  in  the  comb,  and  hot  rolls,  and  steaming  cofiee  of 
delicious  aroma  1  Lizbeth's  eyes  revelled  in  tho  spectacle,  her  nostrils 
sniffed  up  the  fragrance  of  the  coffee.  And  when  the  kind  gentleman 
himself  came  in,  and  sent  her  off  with  the  nurse  to  be  washed,  and  then 
set  her  down  at  the  table  by  his  own  side,  and  helped  her  to  all  the 
good  things  in  turn,  as  if  she  was  the  Que^n  of  England  in  person, 
Lizbeth's  delight,  and  joy,  and  admiration  were  positively  unbounded. 

After  breakfast,  however,  she  began  to  ask  once  more  with  painful 
{MTsistence  to  see  her  mother.  Harry  temporized.  He  pacified  her 
with  promises  for  the  moment ;  he  WDuld  go  upstairs  himself  first,  and 
800  how  mother  was  getting  on,  he  told  her. 

In  the  small  bed  at  the  far  end  of  the  fever  ward  'Jie  new  case,  Sarah 
Wilcox,  lay  breathing  heavily,  but  with  her  eyes  open.  Harry  glanced 
at  her,  and  then  looked  up  at  the  nurse  in  surprise.  "Why,  how's 
this  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  voice  by  no  means  over^pleased.  **  The  woman's 
alive  1  Alive  and  vigorous  1  And  what's  more,  she's  a  trifle  better, 
too  I    Nurse,  nurse,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  her  ? " 

"  Nothing  but  what  you  have  ordered,  doctor,"  the  nurse  answered, 
a  little  surprised.  *'  We've  changed  the  poultices  every  two  nours, 
She  rallied  in  the  night.     She's  takon  beef-tea  and  jelly  frequentlj." 


68  THB  devil's  DIB. 

"  Confound  her,"  Harry  murmured  to  himself,  turning  away  disap- 
pointed. *'Ju8t  like  the  disgusting  perversity  of  things.  If  we'd 
wanted  to  cure  the  wretched  creature,  she'd  have  gone  and  died,  of 
course,  to  spite  her  relations.  But  just  because  she's  an  interesting 
case  tx>  investigate,  she  must  go  and  rally,  to  spite  scientific  medicine.  A 
wretched,  animated  gin-bottle  like  that  I  What  possible  good  can  she 
be  to  the  world,  I  wonder,  except,  indeed,  to  experiment  upon  ?  Talk 
about  the  corpus  mZe,  forsooth  1  What  corpus  villus  could  you  get  than 
her  miserable  carcase  ? "  And  he  went  downstairs  muttering  to  himself 
in  righteous  indignation  against  the  unhappy  being,  because  she  wouldn't 
die  fast  enough  at  the  right  moment,  to  oblige  science. 

*'  Your  mother's  better,"  he  said  to  Lizbeth,  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
aa  he  reached  his  own  room.  *'  A  nurse  will  take  you  up  presently  to 
Me  her.  How's  the  poor  head  this  morning  ?  Ah,  that's  well  1 
Filming  over  nicely.  Wonderful  recuperative  power  in  the  family, 
evidently.  How  did  you  get  it  ?  Father  again  ?  Was  he  practising 
gymnastics  on  you,  too,  my  friend,  with  his  empty  gin-bottle  ?  " 

The  child  hesitated.  *'  N — no,"  she  said.  "  It  wasn't  him  ;  it  was 
mother  as  done  it.  She  took  the  ink-bottle  and  thro  wed  it  at  my  'ead. 
But  it  wasn't  no  fault  of  her'n,  poor  deur.  She  was  angry  with  me, 
acoz  I  didn't  git  her  the  gin  quick  enough  when  she  wanted  it." 

Harry  set  his  lips  firm.  "The  old  fiend  1  "  he  muttered  shortly  to 
himself.  "She  looks  as  if  she  was  every  inch  capable  of  it.  A 
creature  like  that  to  block  the  way  of  science  1  It's  too  absurd  I  The 
world  would  be  more  than  well  rid  of  her  I     And  yet,  a  ridiculous 

Puritanical  law "    He  paused  significantly.    *'  Well,  well  Lizbeth," 

he  went  on,  after  a  minute's  reflection,  *'  you  can  ring  the  bell  now,  if 
you  like,  for  nurse  to  take  you  up  to  see  to  mother." 

It  was  ten  minutes  to  ten  by  the  hospital  clock  when  Mohammad 
Ali  knocked  at  the  door,  and  entered  the  room,  smiling  and  business* 
like. 

*'  Why,  Ali,  you're  early,"  her  friend  cried,  surprised  at  his  appear- 
ance. 

'*  Oh  yes,  I'm  early,"  Ali  answered  unabashed,  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"  The  pursuit  of  science  has  roused  me  betimes  from  my  virtuous  couch 
at  the  hotel  round  the  corner.  I've  come  round  early  to  see  the 
theory  justified.  You  mentioned  ten  sharp,  I  think,  for  the  post- 
mortem. " 

Chichele's  face  fell  abruptly.  He  was  in  no  humour  just  then  for 
professional  chaflF.  The  incredible  perversity  of  Sarah  Wilcox  in  per- 
sisting to  live  against  all  medical  advice  and  prevision,  had  somewhat 
ruffled  his  usual  repose.  "I  did,"  he  replied,  with  sardonic  irony; 
"  but  an  unexpected  hitch  has  meanwhile  arisen.  The  subject  obstin- 
ately declines  to  put  herself  in  a  proper  position  for  the  furtherance 
of  scientific  investigation.  I  regret  to  say  she's  positively  and  absurdly 
better  this  morning." 

*'  I  thought  as  much,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  with  that  annoying 
amile  of  his — a  most  unsympathetic  man  at  times,  Mohammad  Ali. 
**  She  looked  a  particular  tough  subject,  I  fancied.    It  takes  a  great 


deyil'b  die.  09 

deal  to  kill  these  tough  subjects  of  the  lowest  social  strata.  The  germs 
and  they  have  a  hard  tussle  over  it.  So  she's  better,  is  she  ?  Well, 
well,  that's  well.  The  first  business  of  medical  science  is  to  prolong 
life." 

"  Ali,  if  you  fling  your  miserable  little  moral  platitudes  of  the  pro- 
fession at  my  head  this  morning,  I  will  arise  and  slay  you  with  my 
hands,  as  King  Arthur  observed  on  a  critical  occasion  to  the  bold  Sir 
Bedivere.  But  why  prolong  a  life  of  abject  misery  ?  Why  prolong  a  life 
that's  of  no  sort  of  use,  or  good,  or  advantage,  to  itself  or  anybody  else 
that  comes  across  it  ?  For  my  own  part,  I  don't  mind  candidly  con- 
fessing to  you  that  I  don't  want  this  tough  subject  to  go  on  living  any 
longer.  A  miserable,  bloated,  drunken  creature,  who  stupefies  herself 
with  gin,  and  mauls  her  husband,  and  makes  her  abject  little  child's 
life  utterly  unhappy  by  her  gross  cruelty.  Why,  it  was  she  who  scalped 
the  poor  girl's  temple.  You  should  juat  see  the  wound — a  raw  place  as 
big  as  the  palm  of  my  hand — grazed  with  the  sharp  edge  of  an  earthern 
ink-bottle.  Pah !  it's  just  sickening  to  think  of  it  1  The  squalid 
abomination,  cutting  open  her  own  child's  head  with  a  savage  blow 
like  that.  It  makes  me  angry  even  to  realize  that  such  things  can  be 
in  this  nineteenth  century  England  of  ours." 

Mohammad  Ali  bowed  his  head.  **  England  is  perhaps  not  absolutely 
perfect,"  he  admitted  candidly. 

"And  then  to  think,"  Harry  Chichele  continued,  bridling  up  with 
genuine  enthusiasm,  "  of  all  the  good  that  would  result  to  the  world 
from  the  establishraeut  of  my  theory  1  The  valuable  lives  that  would 
be  saved  for  humanity  !  The  wrenches  that  would  be  spared  to  parents 
and  children  ?  The  hold  we  should  gain  over  epidemic  diseases  1  Why, 
our  entire  principles  and  practice  of  hygiene  would  be  revolutionized 
offhand.  Fever  would  be  banished,  cholera  dispelled,  diphtheria  and 
scarlatina  held  at  arm's  length  1  Earth  would  become  a  really  habitable 
planet,  and  the  triumphant  germ  who  now  walks  up  and  down  this 
oblate  spheroid  of  ours  like  a  roaring  lion,  seeking  whom  he  may 
devour,  would  have  his  fangs  drawn  and  his  claws  pared  by  the  calm, 
cool,  dispassionate  prevision  of  prophylactic  science  I  All  these  good 
things  would  come  to  mankind — and  I  should  be  able  to  marry  Olweu 
Tregellas  !  But  no  1  That  bloated,  pasty-faced  drunken  old  reprobate, 
lying  in  bed  in  her  sins  upstairs  there,  stops  the  way  for  all  future  pro- 
gress !  Why,  a  woman  with  a  conscience  would  die  to  order  under  such 
circumstances  ;  but  creatures  like  that  have  nine  lives  and  no  con- 
science. I  hope  to  goodness  she's  arrived  at  the  ninth  and  last  of  hen 
by  thiatimel" 


60  VHl  DlTXL'l  DI« 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

That  long  day  IJirough,  the  woman  Wilcox  dragged  on  dubiously^ 
hanging  by  a  slender  thread  the  whole  time  between  life  and  death, 
but  never  dying — as  in  reason  she  ought  to  have  done.     From  time  to 
time  Harry  Chiehele  ran  upstairs  and  watched  her,  while  Muhammad 
All  hung  about  the  hospital  (where  he  was  weli  known  of  old)  "to  see 
fair  between  science  and  the  patient,"  as  he  himself  quaintly  phrased  it. 
About  three  in  the  afternoon  the  house-surgeon  asked  them  to  step 
round  with  him  to  the  neghbouring  police-court,  where  he  had  to  give 
evidence  in  the  case  of  assault  against  the  woman's  husband.     Harry 
dropped  in  and  listened  to  the  hearing,  his  little  charge,  in  her  quaint 
rig-out,  being  naturally  one  of  the  principal  witnesses.    As  her  acquain- 
ance  with  the  nature  of  an  oath  seemed  evidently  both  profound  and 
exhaustive,  her  testimony  was,  of  course,  received  as  indubitably  valid. 
The  man  Wilcox — fish  merchant,  of  Little  VValpole  Street,  Marylebone, 
he  called  himself  on  the  charge-sheet — was  charged  for  the  present  with 
aggravated  assault ;  but  the  police  intimated,  in  their  cautious  way, 
that  the  case  might  turn  out,   "  with  eventualities,"  to  widen  out  into 
one  of  wilful  murder.     Such  a  picturesque  collection  of  ragged  and 
unwashed  brutality  as  the  lodging-house  witnesses,  Harry  had  never 
before  beheld  ;  nor  did  the  personal  appearance  of  the  prisoner,  William 
Wilcox  himself,   fish-merchant,   of  Little  Walpole  Street,  prepossess 
him  largely  in  favour  of  his  doubtful  patient  at  the  Middlesex  Hospital. 
The  accused  fish-merchant  was  most  undeniably  fishy.     A  more  unmiti- 
gated ruffian  of  his  own  type  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find  outside 
Newgate,  and  Harry  Chiehele  thought  in  his  own  soul  that  if  the  world 
could  be  well  rid  of  the  entire  precious  pair  of  them  at  once,  the  world, 
on  the  whole,  might  rather  be  congratulated  than  otherwise  on  the 
salutary  process. 

'*  What  will  become  of  the  child?"  the  magistrate  asked  with  some 
interest,  after  remanding  the  prisoner.  * '  A  bright  girl,  and  gave  her 
important  evidence  well  and  clearly." 

*'For  the  present,"  Harry  said,  laying  his  kindly  hand  upon  the 
child's  head,  *'  I  undertake  to  look  after  her.  What  we  shall  do  with 
her  in  the  end  must  depend,  of  course,  upon  the  eventualities." 

The  magistrate  smiled.  The  court  smiled.  Bill  himself  smiled 
most  prodigiously.  Eventualities  is  such  a  very  fine  word  to  describe 
the  chance  of  your  getting  hanged  or  not.  Even  though  the  odds  were 
heavy  on  hanging.  Bill  would  have  his  smile  over  it,  with  the  rest  of 
the  w  orld,  like  a  courteous  gentleman. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  away,  however,  and  the  critical  period  of  the 
disease  seemed  to  be  passing  by,  without  the  woman  getting  noticeably 
irorse,  or  noticeably  better  for  that  matter,  either,  Harry  Chichelf 


THE  devil's  DIB.  61 

began  to  reason  with  himself  on  the  chance  of  death  quite  seriously. 
What  was  this  wretclied  woman's  life  worth,  compared  with  the  uni- 
versal good  and  benefit  of  the  whole  world — with  hia  own  and  Olwen 
Tregellas's  happiness  ?  How  foolish  to  believe  one  might  lawfully  kill 
an  open  foe,  but  not  get  rid,  when  occasion  demanded,  of  these  morbid 
excrescences,  these  tumours  and  cancers,  upon  the  very  fabric  and 
organism  of  society  1  No,  no  ;  the  thing  was  as  clear  as  day.  It  was 
expedient  that  tliis  one  sordid  life  should  be  offered  up  on  the  altar  of 
society — and  of  the  new  germ  theory. 

For  his  own  sake,  Harry  Chichele  would  not  have  entertained  the 
notion,  perhaps,  nor  even  for  society's.  Society,  no  doubt,  at  the  cost 
of  some  thousand  valuable  lives  or  so,  could  still  wait  a  month  or  two 
longer  ;  for  society,  you  see,  has  waited  so  long,  and  is,  after  all,  such 
a  pure  abstraction.  But  for  Olwen's — for  Olwen's  !  He  stood  trem- 
bling now  on  the  very  verge  of  a  great,  a  glorious,  and  an  epoch-making 
discovery.  If  he  completed  it  at  once,  well  and  good.  Olwen's  future 
would  be  amply  secured  to  her.  But  if  he  didn't,  some  obscure  German 
or  other,  in  some  out-of-the-way  university  laboratory  among  the  wilds 
of  Saxony,  might  get  wind  of  it  and  be  beforehand  with  him,  and  prove 
his  discovery  a  week  earlier  than  he  himself  had  succeeded  in  proving 
it.  These  obscure  Germans  are  always  anticipating  our  best  ideas  in 
their  cold-blooded,  grasping,  Teutonic  fashion.  And  then,  there  would 
be  an  end  at  once  of  his  splendid  dream  of  fame  and  competence. 
Olwen  would  never  be  Lady  Chichele.  Yes,  yes,  there  was  no  denying 
it,  the  woman  must  go  ;  humanity  and  science,  and  Olwen's  future,  all 
alike  imperatively  demanded  it. 

But  how  ?  That  was  the  question.  Pooh  1  as  he  himself  had  said 
last  night  in  passing,  to  Mohammad  Ali,  if  you  really  want  to  get  rid  of 
anybody,  there  are  a  thousand  ways — physiological  ways  and  patho- 
logical ways — in  which  a  competent  medical  man  can  dexterously 
remove  an  obnoxious  person  without  for  one  moment  arousing  undue 
suspicion. 

What  ways  ?  Oh,  easy  enough  1  The  first  thing  is  to  make  up  your 
mind.  That  done,  the  rest  all  comes  as  pat  as  the  alphabet.  The  real 
question  was  now,  did  he  or  did  he  not  mean  to  do  it  ? 

So  Harry  ruminated,  sometimes  stretched  back  in  his  easy-chair, 
sometimes  pacing  up  and  down  his  room  now  and  again,  and  surprising 
little  Lizbeth  with  his  deep-drawn  breaths,  as  she  sat  at  the  table,  quiet 
as  a  mouse,  looking  over  the  big  bundle  of  children's  picture-books, 
that  Harry  had  borrowed  from  one  of  the  nurses  for  her  amusement. 

Up  and  down  the  room  he  paced,  t^me  after  time,  absorbed  in  thought, 
and  paused  at  last  with  knitted  brows  before  Olwen  Tregellas's  photo- 
graph. His  stern  set  lips  relaxed  at  onco  at  the  sight.  It  was  a  pretty 
photograph,  but  it  didn't  do  that  sweet  face  full  justice.  Nothing  on 
earth  could  do  dear  Olwen  justice,  not  even  Ivan  Royle's  delicious 
half-length  port'-iit.  Yet  what  could  be  lovelier,  after  all,  than  the 
delicate  half-unconacious  smile  upon  those  parted  lips  ?  so  pure,  so 
maidenly,  so  iii.iucent,  bo  charming  1  Harry's  whole  soul  went  out 
vith  a  sigh  to  that  treasured  photograph.     He  loml  her  t    He  lov94 


6S  THE  devil's  DIB. 

her  i  She  must  be  his  I  She  shovld  be  his  !  He  would  make  her  hia 
own  I    She  should  live  yet  to  be  Lady  Chichele  1 

That  object  upstairs  stand  for  one  moment  in  his  angel's  way  I  Heaven 
forbid  !  Never  1  never  1 — ten  thousand  times  never  I  If  the  creature 
had  as  many  lives  as  the  sands  on  the  shore,  there  should  never  a  life 
of  them  stand  in  the  way  for  Olwen  1  for  Olwen  1 — for  his  own  bright, 
beautiful,  innocent  Olwen  ! 

When  he  turned  away  from  that  smiling  photograph  of  the  simple, 
pretty,  tender-hearted  Cornish  girl,  Sarah  Wilcox's  fate  was  sealed 
irrevocably— as  irrevocably  as  if  sentence  of  death  had  been  pronounced 
against  her  in  due  form  by  the  highest  tribunal  in  this  realm  of  Eng- 
land. 

"  Bing  the  bell,  little  woman,  will  you  ?  "  he  said  with  his  winning 
voice  softly  to  Lizbeth.  *'  I  want  to  ask  nurse  something  about  your 
mother." 

A  servant  answered  the  bell  immediately.  "  Will  you  kindly  ask 
the  nurse  in  the  fever  ward,"  Harry  Chichele  said  in  his  politest  man- 
ner, "  when  Sarah  Wilcox's  poultices  will  next  be  changed  ? " 

The  man  came  back  again  in  two  minutes.  *' At  halt-past  six,  sir," 
he  said  briefly.  Harry  Chichele  nodded  a  satisfied  nod.  "  Good,"  he 
answered  ;  **■  that  will  do  perfectly.  Please  get  me  a  basket  from  the 
porter,  Thomas." 

When  the  basket  arrived,  Harry  looked  across  with  a  pleasant  smile 
to  Lizbeth.  **  My  child,"  he  said  kindly,  "  I'm  going  out  now  on  an 
errand  for  five  minutes.  I  have  to  get  something  from  the  chemist  for 
your  mother.  You  can  amuse  yourself  while  I'm  away,  I  suppose,  with 
all  these  toys  and  picture-books  and  things  ? " 

Lizbeth  looked  up  at  him  with  a  puzzled  smile.  "  I  never  was  so 
'appy  in  all  my  born  days  afore,"  she  said  simply.  "  I  think  you're^the 
kindest  gentleman  as  ever  lived.  I'd  like  to  stop  'ere  for  dver  and 
ever." 

Harry  nodded  his  genuine  pleasure  at  her  words,  and  left  the  room 
abruptly.  He  walked  along  the  street  with  his  even  pace  to  the  nearest 
chemist's,  where  he  bought  a  couple  of  waterproof  India-rubber  bags, 
such  as  are  commonly  used  for  putting  sponges  in  ;  one  of  the  very 
largest  size,  the  other  about  half  an  inch  smaller.  Then  he  strolled 
quietly  on  to  the  fishmonger's  and  bought  a  couple  of  pounds  of  ice, 
which  he  put  inside  the  larger  bag,  and  carried  home  to  his  own  rooms 
in  the  basket. 

They  had  always  plenty  of  ice  and  fo  spare  at  the  hospital,  but  Harry 
didn't  care  to  ask  for  any  just  then.  In  these  little  matters,  it  is  best, 
as  far  as  possible,  to  avoid  exciting  attention  or  arousing  suspicion. 
What  can  a  man  want  with  ice  in  his  own  rooms  on  a  chilly,  damp 
November  evening  ?  He  quoted  to  himself  the  *'  Bab  Ballads  :  "  "  The 
novelty  would  striking  be,  and  must  excite  remark."  To  excite  remark 
was  just  what  he  wished  to  avoid  ;  he  must  manage  this  little  affair  for 
himself  in  the  strictest  secrecy. 

When  he  got  home  again,  he  carried  the  basket  into  his  own  bedroom, 
and  proceeded  noiselessly  to  crush  the  ice  small  with  a  pestle  and 


THE  devil's  DIB.  6S 

mortar.  As  soon  as  he  had  crushed  it  to  the  prope?  *^/e,  he  put  it  intc 
the  larger  India-rubber  bag,  and  laid  the  smaller  ^-^«  loose  within  it. 
Then  he  sowed  them  both  together  at  the  top,  lo  that  the  whole 
arrangement  made  a  dry  double  waterproof  ice  bag "  ^ith  the  ice  inside), 
into  which  a  man  could  thrust  his  hand  and  keep  ft  stone  cold  as  long 
as  he  wanted,  without  its  getting  vret  or  otherwisb  Attracting  attention. 
That  done,  he  rolled  the  entire  apparatus  up  in  th^  blanket  on  his  own 
bed,  and  went  out  once  more  into  the  warm  sitting-room.  Lizbeth 
noticed,  wiien  he  came  back,  that  he  had  changed  his  coat.  He  was  now 
wearing  his  loose  brown  velveteen  jacket,  with  very  wide  and  capacious 
side  pockets. 

In  the  sitting-room  he  sat  down  to  his  Davenport  at  once,  and,  find- 
ing he  had  still  ten  minutes  to  spare,  filled  up  the  time  by  continuing 
his  half-written  letter  to  Olwen,  which  he  had  interrupted  when  he  first 
began  to  think  over  this  little  scheme  for — well,  for  aiding  and  abetting 
Nature  in  getting  rid  of  that  miserable,  bloated,  drunken  object. 

"And  then,  my  own  heart's  darling,"  he  was  writing  hastily,  **I 
shall  be  able  at  last,  more  truly  than  ever,  to  call  you  in  very  truth  my 
own.  Of  course  you  are  my  own,  my  very  own,  already,  I  know  ;  my 
own  in  heart  and  thought  and  feeling  ;  my  own  in  every  inmost  thrill 
of  your  nature  ;  but  I  want  you  to  be  still  more  intimately  mine  ;  to 
live  with  you  and  watch  you  all  day  long  ;  to  do  my  best  to  make  you 
happy  ;  to  let  your  life  ennoble  mine,  to  let  my  life  strengthen  and 
enrich  yours  ;  as  every  true  and  perfect  union — man's  and  woman's — 
ought  mutually  to  do.  Oh,  Olwen,  my  darling,  my  own  dearest  one, 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  every  hour  of  the  day " 

At  that  exact  moment  the  muflBed  hospital  clock  struck  slowly  the 
single  note  of  half-past  six.  That  dull  sound  recalled  Harry  to  himself 
with  a  start.  He  replaced  the  letter  instantly  in  the  desk,  locked  the 
lid  down,  and  hurried  oflF  at  once  into  his  own  bedroom.  When  he 
emerged,  his  right  hand  was  plunged  deep  in  his  coat  pocket,  and  a 
resolute  smile  played  ominously  about  the  firm-set  corners  of  his  thin 
pale  lips. 

In  the  fever  ward  above,  Mohammad  Ali,  the  nurse,  and  the  house- 
surgeon  were  all  waiting  for  him  by  the  patient's  bedside.  Sarah  Wil- 
cox  lay  half  insensible  on  her  narrow  cot  with  rolling  eyes,  that  showed 
the  whites  and  part  of  the  iris  ;  and  her  breathing  was  still  loud  and 
stertorous.  "  We  must  be  very  careful,"  the  house-surgeon  said  as 
Hj^rry  approached.  '*  Life  and  death  hang  upon  it,  you  see,  both  for 
the  woman  herself  and  for  her  husband  too.  The  slightest  chill  would 
instantly  kill  her,  I  think.     What  do  you  say,  eh,  Chichele  ?  " 

"  Wants  great  care,"  Harry  answered,  in  a  slow  delibaiate  tone, 

inspecting  her  closely.     '*  Come  round  here,  Ali.     You  stand  over  at 

the  side  and  help  me.     I'll  support  her  back  while  nurse  gets  ready  the 

i  flannel  bandage.     Now,  nurse,  quick  !    Have  the  things  handy.  Don't 

lose  a  minute  1    A  chill  may  be  fatal  1 " 

j  ^  "Are  your  hands  warm  ?"  Mohammad  Ali  askod  suspiciously,  with 
his  oriental  quickness.  Harry  held  out  his  left  with  the  utmost  frank- 
ness for  his  friend  to  feel.    Ali  clasped  it  in  his,  and  nodded  satisfiecU 


di  tfiB  DBTIL^S  Dtfe. 

It  was  warm  as  a  toftjt.     The  right  hand  lay  still  in  the  right-haud 
pocket — buried  deep  in  the  stone-cold  ice-bag.     Mohammad  Ali,  witii 
all  his  sharpness,  didn't  think  or  ask  to  feel  that  one. 
*'  Take  off  the  poultice  I  "  Hariy  said  shortly. 

The  nurse  removed  it.  Harry  withdrew  his  right  hand  at  once  from 
the  bag,  and  supported  the  woman  with  his  broad  palm  on  the  small  of 
her  back.  A  cold  shudder  seemed  to  run  like  lightning  through  the 
wretched  creature's  spine.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  gasped  for  breath. 
For  a  second  some  mumbling  word  appeared  to  tremble  inaudibly  on 
her  bloated  lips.  It  was  a  hideous  oath — an  oath  of  the  foulest  and 
vulgarest  profanity.  She  couldn't  utter  it — her  strength  was  too  low 
— but  the  house-surgeon,  eyeing  her  sternly,  on  her  quivering  mouth 
■aw  her  frame  it  visibly  with  a  final  effort,  and  shuddered  his  unaffected 
disgust.  *' She's  a  bad  lot,"  he  muttered,  relaxing  his  hold.  "Even 
at  this  last  moment,  Ghichele,  she's  flinging  horrible  filthy  oaths  and 
names  at  us." 

Harry  Ghichele  smiled  contented.  That  vile  end  justified  to  himself 
hia  own  action.  Who  could  care  to  save  such  a  woman  as  that?  Surely 
the  world  would  be  well  rid  of  her. 

They  bound  up  the  bandage  and  laid  her  down  with  care  on  the  bed 
once  more.  Th<^  cold  tremors  still  coursed  convulsively  down  the  crea- 
ture's back.  Harry  regarded  her  awhile  with  close  attention.  *'  She 
won't  pull  through,"  he  said.  '*  She's  too  far  gone.  There's  no  chance 
now  of  her  living  till  morning." 

Mohammad  Ali  shook  his  head.  '*  I  can't  understand  it  at  all,"  he 
answered  moodily.  *'  Half  an  hour  ago  she  seemed  as  if  she  were  really 
rallying.     Now  ohe'a  going  off  with  startling  rapidity." 

Harry  smiled  again,  a  calm  wise  smile,  and  went  downstairs  to  hk 
own  room.  It  was  more  seemly  so.  Indecent  anxiety  would  too 
readily  betray  itself.  He  would  wait  below  for  final  news  to  be  brought 
from  the  fever  ward.     In  one  more  day  the  theoiy  would  be  vindicated. 

He  didn't  feel  like  a  would-be  murderer.  He  didn't  consider  himself 
in  that  light  at  all.  People  were  always  dying  in  the  hospital  ;  some- 
times unavoidably,  sometimes  from  the  result  of  operations  or  from  the 
carelessness  or  stupidity  of  nurses.  One  more  death  among  so  many 
mattered  but  little.     It  merely  went  in  with  the  general  average. 

Half  an  hour  passed  slowly  by  upstairs,  and  the  house-surgeon  still 
watched  with  patient  eyes  the  last  struggles  of  the  dying  woman. 
Mohammad  Ali  stood  by  his  side.  *'It's  very  odd,"  he  whispered. 
"  I  can  see  what's  happened,  but  I  can't  in  the  least  aooount  for  it. 
We  were  careful  to  the  last  degree,  yet  some  sudden  chill  must  have 
congested  the  kidneys." 

As  he  spoke  the  woman  lifted  her  hand  uneasily  from  the  bed.  She 
was  groping  about  now  as  if  feeling  for  something.  Her  fingers 
fumbled  with  the  folds  of  the  bedclothes.  Presently,  she  raised  her 
head  a  little,  '*  Gin  1 "  she  cried  in  an  audible  voice,  opening  her  eyes 
in  one  last  flickering  rally.  "  Gim'me  some  gin,  gim'me  some  gin,  you 
beggar ! "  A.nd  then,  with  a  sudden  ghastly  collapse,  she  f«U  badk 
■peacb.i^v    a  the  hospital  pillow. 


THI   DBYIL'B   DIS.  65 

The  nurse  looked  hard  at  her  and  nodded  to  the  surgeon.  The  sur- 
geon answered  in  his  stereotyped  voice,  **Go  down  and  tell  Dr. 
Chichele,"  Tliey  were  all  so  accustomed  to  strange  deaths  in  that  huuse 
of  mercy  that  even  this  horrible  one  did  not  greatly  aflFect  them. 

Harry  Chichele  was  seated  comfortably  by  his  own  table,  giving  Lia- 
beth  a  first  lesson  in  the  mysteries  of  backgammon,  when  Mohammad 
Ali  and  the  nurse  entered.  "  Sixes,"  he  cried  gaily,  as  the  child  threw. 
*'  You  take  those  four  times,  you  see,  because  it's  a  doublet.  That's  a 
good  throw,  Lizbeth  ;  a  capital  throw.  I  couldn't  have  done  it  better 
myself.  I  believe  you'll  beat  me  after  all,  little  woman.  You're  getting 
on  famously.     You'll  make  a  first-rate  backgammon  player." 

*'  Doctor,"  the  nurse  said,  opening  the  door,  without  one  word  of 
preface  or  warning,  "  Sarah  Wilcox  is  just  dead.  You  said  you  wished 
to  be  told  of  it  the  moment  it  happened." 

Harry  Chichele's  hand  was  upon  Lizbeth's  backgammon  men,  show- 
in<;  her  how  to  take  her  doublets  to  the  best  advantage  ;  and  he  would 
have  gone  on  to  make  the  four  movctf  for  her,  in  spite  of  the  nurse's 
startling  intelligence  (as  Mohammad  Ali  noticed  from  behind  his  keen 
quick  eye)  had  he  not  been  interrupted  even  as  she  spoke  by  a  terrible, 
heartrending  outburst  of  grief  from  poor,  orphaned,  and  lonely  little 
Lizbeth.  She  cried  once,  and  then  was  silent.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
piercing  and  agonized  cry — the  short  sharp  wail  of  a  broken  heart  that 
has  lost  its  all  at  a  single  venture.  Next  moment  the  child  threw  back 
her  head  and  stifi[ened  her  limbs.  Her  whole  body  grew  stark  and 
rigid.  Her  upturned  eyes  gleamed  dull  and  deathlike.  For  a  second 
she  seemed  almost  as  if  really  dead,  so  cold  and  stififand  motionless  she 
lay,  with  her  neck  flung  back,  and  her  breath  held  long  in  deep  uncon> 
■oiousness. 

Harry  Chichele  seized  her  tenderly  in  his  arms,  as  a  man  might  seize 
his  own  daughter.  "  Brandy  !  "  he  whispered  quietly  to  Mohammad 
Ali.  "  Fan  her,  nurse  I  Fresh  air  I  Fresh  air  1  Fresh  air  !  Don't 
crowd  about  her  1  Give  her  room  k)  breathe  I  Poor  little  thing  !  poor 
httle  thing  I  What  a  soft  little  soul  she  must  have,  after  all  f  Who 
would  ever  have  thought  she'd  take  it  to  heart  like  that  ?  A  miserable 
wretch  of  a  woman  such  as  her  mother  !  Not  fit  to  be  mother  to  any 
living  human  creature  1 " 

The  child  opened  her  eyes  vaguely.    "  She  was  all  the  mother  I  'ad," 
she  muttered  to  herself  in  a  alow  deep  voice,  and  then  relapsed  onM 
^  more  into  perfect  rigidity.  ~^ 


61  THE  DEVIL'S  DIB. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Mohammad  Au  was  right  when  he  declared  that  Harry  Chichele  wai 
by  no  means  cruel  or  unfeeling  in  the  grain.  As  the  keen-eyed  Moslem 
watched  the  Englishman  assiduously  nursing  that  poor  motherless  help- 
less little  waif  the  evening  through,  with  unceasing  tendernoss,  he  could 
not  but  think  more  than  once  to  himself,  "  After  all,  my  suspicions  must 
have  been  ill-founded,  and  Harry's  really  a  thorough  good  fellow  in 
spite  of  everything."  Could  he  still  continue  to  believe  him  stern  and 
hard-hearted  ?  Could  he  hesitate  to  entrust  even  Olwen's  happiness  to 
a  man  who  could  lavish  such  gentle  and  patient  excess  of  care  upon  a 
mere  ragged  small  London  outcast  ?  Surely,  surely,  ho  must  have 
been  mistaken  in  his  first  estimate  of  the  man's  character. 

For  Harry  undressed  the  child  and  laid  her  to  rest  with  gentle  arms  in 
hifl  own  bed.  The  sofa  would  do  well  enough  for  himself  to-night,  he 
said.  He  sat  beside  her  and  held  her  thin  small  hand  softly  in  his  own; 
he  put  eau-de-Cologne  upon  her  poor  hot  forehead  ;  he  fed  her  himself 
from  a  spoon  with  beef-tea,  and  milk-food,  and  essence,  and  jelly,  as 
he  had  fed  Ivan  Royle,  a  couple  of  months  before,  away  down  at  Pol- 
perran.  He  was  all  kindness  and  goodness  and  professional  gentleness 
— the  very  embodiment  of  the  ideal  doctor. 

Could  Harry  have  done  all  this  if  he  had  really  and  truly — as  AH 
somehow  vacruely  suspected — in  some  way  or  other  shortened  the  life  of 
Lizbeth's  miserable  drunken  mother. 

Ali  was  inclined  at  first  sight  to  answer,  No.  The  paradox  seemed 
almost  incredible.  No  man  could  so  completely  possess  two  natures. 
And  yet,  was  it  really  two  natures  after  all  ?  What  more  conceivable 
than  that  a  person  should  be  tender,  sympathetic,  lovable,  gentle, 
should  loathe  cruelty  or  unnecessary  pain,  and  yet  should  be  absolutely 
devoid  of  any  regard  for  the  sanctity  of  human  life  as  such  ;  should 
sacrifice  it  as  ruthlessly,  when  occasion  demanded,  as  he  sacrificed  the 
rabbits,  and  cats,  and  pigeons  he  used  in  his  frequent  physiological  ex- 
experiments  ?    Such  a  character  was  at  least  possible. 

And  then,  with  a  sudden  and  ghastly  distinctness,  there  rose  onco 
•j  ore,  in  vivid  colours,  before  his  mind's  eye,  a  terrible  picture — the 
picture  of  Begum  Johanna  of  Deoband,  Harry  Chichele's  ancestress 
in  the  fourth  degree,  lying  on  her  bed  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  above 
the  starving  slave-giil's  living  tomb — and  with  a  flash  the  riddle  seemed 
easy  indeed  to  ^olve.  The  man  was  a  complex  of  jarring  elements. 
On  the  one  side,  the  sensitiveness,  the  delicacy,  the  refinement,  the 
sympathy  of  European  moral  ideas  ;  on  the  other  side,  the  unscrupu- 
lousness,  the  treachery,  the  suppressed  and  concealed  but  ever-presenl 
cruelty  of  the  Hindoo  native.  Of  such  strnnge  components,  in  varying^ 
proportions,  was  Harry  Chichele's  character  ultimately  built  up.  WbAt 


THE  deyil's  die.  67 

wonder  he  should  be  as  Ali  knew  him  ?  Under  ordinary  circumstan- 
ees,  BO  Ali  thought,  the  Englishman  on  the  whole  preponderated  ;  but 
on  certain  occasions,  when  things  so  willed  it,  the  nature  and  instincts 
of  Begum  Johanna  came  out  strong  in  him  ;  and  the  moment  of  the 
woman's  death,  Ali  believed,  was  one  of  these  worst  and  more  awful 
moments. 

He  had  little  time  however  for  speculating  on  his  friend's  psychology, 
for  the  next  few  days  were  full  and  busy  ones  for  both  Harry  and  AU. 
Lizbeth,  indeed,  shortly  began  to  mend,  and  as  she  did  so  her  dog-like 
love  for  her  wretched  drunken  mother,  the  one  being  she  had  ever 
known  round  whom  the  tendrils  of  her  poor  small  heart  could  timidly 
twine  themselves,  seemed  all  to  turn  vicariously,  with  sudden  energy,  upon 
her  new  protector,  Harry  Chichele.  He  had  been  kind  to  mother — 
that  was  her  one  great  thought ;  he  had  taken  her  in  and  cared  for  her 
at  the  hospital  ;  he  had  tried  to  euro  her  though  he  hadn't  succeeded  ; 
he  had  done  his  best  at  the  end  for  mother.  The  child's  gratitude  was 
almost  painfully  fervid.  It  burnt  with  a  clear  and  bright  light  in  her 
very  face.  Such  a  misplaced  feeling  would  have  smitten  a  weaker  man 
than  Harry  Chichele  with  profound  remorse.  But  Harry,  like  the 
strong  sinner  that  he  was,  accepted  it  all  with  good-humoured  amuse- 
ment as  a  tribute  due  to  him.  She  was  a  poor,  miserable,  houseless, 
little  stray,  he  said,  laughingly  ;  and  as  she  was  good  enough  to  hon- 
our him  with  her  friendly  confidence,  she  should  never  have  any  cause 
to  regret  it.  If  Bill  was  unfortunately  hanged — which  little  accident 
must  not  happen,  if  possible,  for  the  woman  had  died  distinctly  of  the 
fever,  not  of  the  assault — why,  then,  he  would  take  over  Lizbeth  him- 
self without  consulting  her  natural  guardian,  the  parish.  If,  on  the 
other  hand.  Bill  wasn't  hanged,  which  happy  consummation  we  must  all 
strive  to  our  utmost  to  bring  about,  why,  in  that  case,  doubtless,  Bill 
could  be  persuaded  by  a  solid  solatium  in  coin  of  the  realm  (not  exceed- 
ing forty  shillings)  to  forego  his  pro^)und  parental  feelings,  and  to 
make  over  Lizbeth  in  perpetuity  to  the  care  and  guardianship  of  her 
present  protector.  So  all  would  come  out  right  in  the  end.  Nothing 
could  be  simpler,  easier  or  more  perfectly  satisfactory. 

Not  that  the  young  doctor  proposed  to  adopt  Lizbeth  ;  Harry  Chich- 
ele had  no  such  quixotic  notions  in  his  head  as  that.  He  would  bring  up 
the  girl  as  a  servant  about  the  house,  and  perhaps  in  time,  when  she 
was  old  enough  and  wise  enough,  train  her  as  a  nurse  under  his  own 
eye  here  at  the  hospital.  She  would  be  well  provided  for,  but  only  as 
an  act  of  pure  generosity.  He  owed  her  nothing  and  he  would  pay 
her  handsomely. 

But  there  were  many  other  things  at  the  same  time  to  occupy  Harry 
Chichele's  more  serious  attention.  First  of  all,  there  was  the  inquest, 
and  then  there  was  the  important  question  of  the  germs.  As  the  even- 
tualities would  have  it,  of  course,  an  inquest  was  necessjiry  ;  and 
though  Harry  and  the  surgeon  gave  their  evidence  strongly  in  favour  of 
death  being  due  to  fever  alone,  the  coroner's  jury,  exercisinuf  its 
undoubted  and  cherished  British  privilege  of  setting  aside  cavalierly 
the  opinion  of  the  experts,  and  much  moved  by  Lizbeth's  graphio 


68  THi  dbyil's  dii. 

description  of  the  scene  in  the  attic,  which  she  reproduced  with  tneat« 
rical  fidelity,  'jrought  in  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder  against  William 
Wilcox,  fish  uierchant,  of  Little  Walpole  Street,  Marylebone,  the  hus- 
band of  the  decea  ed.  Little  lazbeth  was  absolutely  in  her  element  in 
giving  evidence,  which  she  gave  with  a  will  against  her  drunken  father. 

" 'E  come  in  an'  'e  says,  Til  murder  yer,'  says  'e,"  the  child 
deposed  with  such  dramatic  force,  assuming  the  very  tone  and  accent 
of  the  placidly  smiling  prisoner.  " 'I'll  do  for  you,' says 'e.  *You 
see  if  I  don't ;  you  tarmagan.  I'll  teach  yer  to  'urt  'er.  You're  a 
beauty,  you  are.  I'll  swing  for  you  Sal,' says  *e,  'I'll  smash  you; 
1*11  murder  you.'  An'  then  'e  up  with  the  bottle,  and  bangs  it  down 
like  this — so  ;  an'  bashes  in  'er  head  with  a  great  blow  ;  and  the  poor 
dear  just  lays  'erself  back  an'  done  this  way  ;  an'  the  blood  come  a' 
spurting  out  of  'er  poor  cut  face  ;  an'  'e  stands  up  and  he  smiles,  an*  'e 
smiles,  an*  'e  sticks  'is  'ands  a-smiling  in  'is  pockets,  an'  *e  never 
takes  no  more  notice  or  nothink.  An'  there  'e  is,  just  as  you  sees  'im." 
No  wonder  a  susceptible  British  jury,  moved  by  this  clear  testimony  to 
the  prisoner's  deliberate  determination  to  kill  his  wife,  should  bring  in 
a  verdict  of  wilful  murder. 

Nevertheless,  the  verdict  somewhat  astonished  and  perturbed  Harry 
Ohichele  ;  and  Mohammad  Ali  noticed,  with  a  deepening  sense  of 
uncomfortable  suspicion  against  his  English  friend,  that  Harry  was  evi- 
dently uneasy  in  his  own  mind  about  it,  as  if  he  himself  were  in  some 
way  responsible  for  the  eventuality.  "It  doesn't  much  matter,  you 
know,"  he  said  apologetically  more  than  once,  in  an  awkward,  shuffling 
way  to  Ali.  "  Coroner's  juries  always  do  prejudge  a  case  against  the 
suspected  person.  But  it  doesn't  matter  :  the  jury  at  the  trial  '11  set 
all  that  p«rfectly  right.  It'll  take  a  more  serious  view  of  its  responsi- 
bilities than  a  mere  amateurish  inefiective  body  like  a  coroner's  jury." 

*'The  palladium  of  British  liberty  is  always  absurdly  emotional," 
Mohammad  Ali  answered,  watching  the  efi'ect  of  his  words  upon  his 
hearer  intently  with  his  usual  oriental  keenness  of  observation.  "I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  for  my  part  if  they  convicted  the  man,  merely 
on  the  strength  of  the  girl's  evidence.  It's  a  fine  sensational  scene,  as 
she  describes  it — the  fellow  smashing  in  the  sick  wife's  head  with  the 
empty  gin  bottle — and  it  loses  nothing  from  that  queer  little  imp's 
straightforward  small  mouth  and  theatrical  manner.  She'll  produce  an 
eflfect,  I'll  bet  you  a  quid,  upon  any  jury  in  all  England." 

Harry's  face  grew  white  and  pasty.  "  Pooh,  pooh  1  "  he  said.  "  The 
trial  '11  be  a  pure  formality.  Judges  are  always  sen&ible  men.  They're 
not  carried  away  by  m.ere  emotion,  like  coroner's  juries.  They  take 
care  that  due  importance  shall  be  attached  to  technical  and  scientific 
evidence.  Juries  always  find  in  these  cases  according  as  the  judges 
■um  up.  The  man  '11  get  off  on  the  capital  charge,  I  don't  doubt, 
though  he'll  receive  what  he  deserves — six  months  in  prison — for  the 
assault  and  battery. 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  all  his  airy  protestations,  Mohammad  Ali 
could  see  clearly  by  the  frequency  with  which  ho  reverted  to  the  sub- 
ject, that  Harry  was  by  no  means  easy  about  it  in  bis  own  mind,  and 


THS  devil's   DIB.  69 

that  his  conscience  pricked  him,  not  indeed  for  accelerating  the  woman's 
death  (if,  as  Ali  more  and  more  definitely  began  to  suspect,  he  had  in 
fact  somehow  accelerated  it),  but  for  helping  to  let  unjust  suspicion 
fall  upon  that  worthless  and  abject  creature,  her  husband. 

However,  being  happily  for  himself  a  person  of  varied  and  many- 
sided  interests,  not  apt  to  be  wholly  preoccupied  by  such  small  matters 
as  the  ultimate  results  of  his  own  little  action,  Harry  let  the  question 
lie  by  for  the  present,  and  occupied  himself  for  the  moat  part,  mean- 
while, with  his  investigation  into  the  ultimate  nature  of  the  lodging- 
house  fever  germs. 

At  this  congenial  task  he  worked  hard  with  his  microscope  in  all  hia 
leisure  hours,  developing  and  observing  those  precious  germs — the 
germs  that  had  cost  that  miserable  wonian  Wilcox  the  tag  end  of  her 
unhappy  and  useless  existence.  He  was  greatly  excited  about  the 
result — more  excited,  Mohammad  Ali  acutely  observed,  than  even  the 
intrinsic  importance  of  the  subject  to  science  and  himself  could  well 
account  for.  Mohammad  Ali  had  a  certain  vague  and  unfounded  sus- 
picion floating  through  his  brain  that  Harry,  in  fact,  wanted  the  germs 
to  justify  his  action — wanted  them  to  yield  an  adequate  result  in  order 
that  he  might  not  feel  to  himself  he  had  wasted  his  crime  all  for 
nothing.  When  you  so  far  depart  from  conventional  morality  as  to  kill 
somebody  for  an  experimental  purpose,  you  would  at  least  like  your 
costly  experiment  to  turn  out  successful,  rather  than  to  end  in  a 
wretched  fiasco. 

As  the  investigation  drew  towards  its  close,  Harry's  excitement  be- 
came almost  painfully  intense.  He  sat  patiently  for  hours  at  a  time 
with  his  eye  at  his  microscope,  never  withdrawing  it  for  a  single  second, 
and  feeding  himself  through  a  tube  with  beef-tea,  waiting  to  see  the 
germs  in  their  new  "culture  liquid" — the  artificial  medium  in  which 
he  had  placed  them  to  aid  their  development — assume  that  jointed 
necklace-like  co  .iditioii  which  was  the  essential  point  for  the  proof  of 
his  new  theory.  If  only  that  one  last  link  in  the  chain  of  evidence 
could  be  supplied — if  only  segnientation  would  take  place  in  the  way 
he  expected,  the  tiieory  would  have  become  a  triumphant  success,  and 
he,  Harry  Chichele,  would  be  the  greatest  discoverer  in  medical  science 
since  the  days  of  Jenner  and  vaccination. 

How  small  a  matter,  comparatively,  was  the  death  of  that  bloated 
drunken  being  1 

IIo  saw  it  all  floating  vaguely  before  his  own  mind,  this  vast  future 
that  awaited  his  grasp,  this  glorious  destiny  laid  up  beforehand  by  fate 
f"i'  himself — and  Olwen.  Nothing  like  it,  he  fancied  in  his  heated 
iinayination,  had  ever  yet  been  done  in  modern  medicine.  Harvey's 
tliscovery  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  Hunter's  magnificent  anato- 
mical demonstrations,  Sydenham's  improvements  in  sanitary  regimen — 
what  were  they  all  beside  this  fundamental  question  of  the  utter  staujp- 
ing  out  of  infectious  diseaso--the  anniliilation  of  fevers  and  smallpox 
»nd  cholera  1  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  great  sanitary  millennium. 
He  saw,  in  his  waking  vision,  a  Chichele  society  founded  at  Burlington 
Bouse  for  the  study  and  development  of  the  new  medical  principles. 


70  THB  DSTIL'B  DIB. 

He  «aw  a  Chichele  statue  duly  adorning  the  imposing  front  of  ita 
splendid  edifice.  He  saw  himself  president  of  the  College  of  Physicians, 
receiving  distinguished  visitors  in  his  chair  of  office.  And  through  the 
fabric  of  his  day-dream,  thus  dancing  visibly  before  his  heated  brain, 
as  he  pored  for  hours  together,  ceaselessly  through  the  microscope, 
Olwen'a  graceful  little  figure  flitted  ever  like  a  beautiful  phantom, 
hallowing  and  consecrating  the  vei*y  crime  by  which  he  had  made  it  all 
possible.  He  loved  her  now  profoundly  and  unspeakably — for  had  he 
not  dared,  for  her  sake,  the  utterly  unspeakable  ? 

Then,  again,  as  he  sat  in  this  heroic  mood,  waiting  and  watching, 
waiting  and  watching,  waiting  and  watching  for  the  final  result,  and 
just  supporting  himself  on  beef- tea  and  brandy,  which  Ali  supplied 
him,  sucked  through  the  tube,  at  times  a  terrible  wave  of  reaction 
would  come  slowly  over  him,  and  he  would  begin  to  fear,  with  a  certain 
awful  sinking  terror,  that  the  things  were  never  going  to  segment  at  all, 
and  that  his  glorious  theory,  from  which  he  had  hoped  and  expected  so 
much,  for  which  he  had  faced  such  horrible  possibilities,  was  going  to 
turn  out  in  the  end  a  dismal  failure,  and  disappoint  him  utterly  of  his 
legitimate  triumph.  At  such  times  his  heart  failed  fearfully  within 
him,  and  a  gnawing  horror,  that  was  not  remorse,  nor  yet  repentance, 
but  rather  a  mere  wearied  and  sickening  sense  of  futile  criminality, 
took  possession  throughout  of  his  nerves  and  muscles.  He  could  hardly 
hold  the  focussing-screws  of  the  microscope  aright  for  trembling  ;  he 
could  hardly  distinguish  the  dim  and  shadowy  objects  that  flitted  and 
flickered  on  the  illuminated  slide,  for  failure  of  vision  to  follow  them 
properly. 

Hour  after  hour  went  slowly  by,  and  still  the  germs  showed  no  signs 
or  trace  of  jointing  or  dividing.  Harry's  excitement  grew  more  and 
more  intense  with  every  moment.  Mohammad  Ali  watched  him  nar- 
rowly. He  sat  with  his  eye  fixed  hard  on  the  eye-piece  of  the  instru- 
ment, and  his  hand  trembling  with  nervous  agitation  upon  the  screw  that 
alters  and  varies  the  focus.  Cold  perspiration  gathered  in  large  round 
drops  on  his  clammy  brow.  No  scientific  experiment  was  ever  before 
watched  with  such  profound,  such  intense,  such  absorbing  interest. 
At  last  he  looked  up  curiously  at  Ali.  *'It  would  be  horribly  disap- 
pointing," he  said,  with  some  vain  attempt  at  preserving  his  usual 
impassive  scientific  coolness,  "  if  these  beastly  things  were  never  to 
group  or  segment  at  all.  One  wouldn't  like  to  think  even  that  wretched 
woman's  life  was  just  simply  fooled  away,  as  it  were,  all  for  a  stupid, 
unsuccessful  experiment  1 " 

"  One  would  not,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  drily.  Harry  started. 
Their  eyes  met  for  a  single  second.  Mohammad  All's  were  full  of 
meaning.  Then  Harry  withdrew  his  own  uneasily,  with  a  sudden 
movement,  and  applied  them  once  jnore,  weary  with  watching,  to  that 
fatiguing  and  disappointing  eye-piece.  He  had  said  too  much.  He 
had  spoken  out  his  thoughts  with  too  frank  suggestiveness. 

The  field  of  the  microscope  grew  giddy  before  his  vacant  gaze.  He 
could  hardly  distinguish  the  tiny  objects  that  swam  so  aimlessly  and 
raguely  about  in  it.    They  were  swimming  in  cuoh  enormous  numbers 


TBB  DEVIL'S  DIB.  71 

now — thousands  and  thousands  of  them  joined  together,  in  a  sort  of 
long-jointed  beaded  necklace  pattern.  So  profound  was  his  agitation, 
and  so  eager  his  desire  to  attain  the  wished-for  result,  that  he  looked 
at  them  long  with  vague  speculation  in  his  wearied  pupils  before  it  even 
began  to  dawn  upon  his  dulled  and  numbed  intelligence  that  this  was 
really  the  very  sight  for  which  he  had  been  so  long  and  so  ardently 
looking.  They  were  segmenting !  Yes,  they  were  segmenting  1  Great 
chains  and  strings  and  criss-cross  rows  of  them,  in  endless  array, 
filling  uj»  the  entire  field  of  vision  !  A  sudden  thrill  ran  through  and 
through  hijn.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true ;  too  glorious,  too  magnificent  1 
The  theory  was  proved  1    The  germs  were  jointed ! 

He  dared  not  believe  or  trust  his  own  eyes.  He  dared  not  think 
they  saw  aright.  Everything  swam  before  them  so  terribly  now.  Per- 
haps it  was  only  an  optical  illusion.  Perhaps  it  was  fancy,  hallucination, 
insanity.  How  could  he  be  calm  at  so  supreme  a  crisis  of  his  life  as 
this  ?  Fame,  reputation,  Olwen's  happiness,  all  trembled  together 
visibly  in  the  balance  for  a  moment.  He  could  not  confide  in  his  own 
observation  for  very  terror.  He  could  not  hope  it  was  really  true. 
He  called  Mohammad  Ali  to  help  him  look.  "  For  Heaven's  sake, 
come  and  see  them,  Ali,"  he  cried.  ''Am  I  mad,  or  are  they  really 
jointed  ? " 

The  Indian  put  his  eye  somewhat  sceptically  to  the  eye -piece. 
"Yes,"  he  answered  at  last,  after  a  long  gaze,  with  slow  deliberation. 
•*  The  theory  is  true.  There  can  be  no  doubt  at  all  in  the  world  about 
it.  The  germs  are  lengthening  out  one  by  one  into  long-jointed  worm- 
like strings.  I  can  see  them  rapidly  and  distinctly  segmenting  before 
my  own  eyes  this  very  moment." 

Harry  sank  back  exhausted  in  a  chair.  *'  Brandy  1  brandy  I  "  he 
murmured  faintly.  Thank  goodness,  thank  goodness,  it  was  not  in 
vain !  Then  his  crime  had  not  been  committed  for  tl  pure  chimera. 
Science  was  saved — and  Olwen  should  yet  be  Lady  Chichele. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  PEW  weeks  only  elapsed  before  the  advent  of  that  *'pu  a  formal- 
ity," William  Wilcox's  trial  for  the  wilful  murder  of  his  wife  Sarah. 
Time  flies  when  one's  going  to  be  hanged  or  married.  Harry  Chichele 
spent  the  brief  interval  in  preparing  his  paper  for  the  Royal  Society, 
and  working  up  in  detail  his  great  discovery,  now  almost  secure  of  a 
triumphant  recognition. 

He  worked  it  up  with  all  his  fiery  energy,  and  in  a  perfect  exaltation 
of  exaggerated  enthusiasm.  The  strange  events  of  the  last  few  weeks 
had  combined  to  throw  him  into  a  vigorous  access  of  feverish  excite- 
ment. The  theory  possessed  him  heart  and  soul  now  ;  he  could  think 
and  talk  and  writ«  of  nothing  else,  even  in  his  daily  letters  to  Olwen. 


72  THE  DEVIL'S  DIfi. 

It  was  to  him  the  otle  great  fact  of  the  age,  the  panacea  for  all  the 
various  ills  of  humanity,  the  vastest  revolution  ever  yet  effected  in  the 
whole  course  of  medical  science.  He  wrote  about  it  in  his  paper  with 
contagious  zeal ;  he  was  drunk  with  the  imaginary  grandeur  and  mag- 
nificence of  his  own  conception. 

So  the  weeks  rolled  quickly  and  easily  by  till  the  evening  before 
William  Wilcox's  trial.  On  that  very  evening  he  had  arranged  to  read 
his  paper  to  a  crowded  meeting  of  the  Royal  Society.  He  knew  it 
would  be  crowded,  for  his  name  was  already  well  known  in  scientific 
London,  and  the  fiact  that  he  had  made  some  new  observations  of  prime 
importance  on  the  germs  of  cholera  and  other  epidemic  diseases  had 
already  leaked  out  into  medical  society.  Besides,  he  had  woke  up  and 
found  himself  famous  after  the  episode  of  the  Seamew.  All  the  world 
had  been  talking  about  the  wonderful  voyage  of  the  cholera-ship  ;  and 
he  and  Mohammad  Ali  had  returned  to  London  to  discover  themselves 
the  heroes  of  an  historical  adventure.  Everybody,  indeed,  who  was 
anybody  in  the  scientific  world  was  there  that  night  to  hear  him  pro- 
pound his  great  theory.  He  went  down  to  Burlington  House  enthusi- 
astic, well  primed,  and  fully  prepared  ;  he  took  with  him  his  slides  and 
his  germs  and  his  liquids  and  his  diagrams,  and  he  did  himself,  as  he 
always  did,  ample  justice,  both  in  the  manner  and  the  matter  of  his 
weighty  contribution.  Everybody  listened  in  attentive  silence.  It 
was  an  able  paper,  ably  delivered.  At  the  end,  the  men  of  many 
letters,  F.R.S.  and  D.O.L.  and  Ph.D.,  and  all  the  rest  of  them,  crowded 
forward  eagerly  to  see  the  slides  he  had  brought  down  in  illustration  of 
his  novel  theory.  There  was  a  general  buzz  and  hum  of  discussion 
around  the  microscopes.  The  whole  world  of  science  looked  and  talked 
and  reflected  and  debated.  A  moment  of  terrible  suspense  intervened 
for  Harry  Chichele.  Then  the  greatest  physiological  authority  there 
present.  Sir  Roderic  Brinton,  bending  his  brows  to  their  severest  arch, 
and  pursing  his  lips  up  with  critical  dignity,  said  abruptly  to  the  trem- 
bling young  man,  **  I  shouldn't  like  to  commit  myself  too  far  at  this 
early  stage.  Dr.  Chichele,  but  there  seems  to  me  to  be  a  great  deal 
in  it." 

At  that,  the  storm  of  assent  began  in  earnest.  The  world  had  got 
its  cue,  and,  as  usual,  acted  at  once  blindly  upon  it.  Here  and  there, 
to  be  sure,  a  doubter  or  a  scoffer  held  aloof  conspicuously  in  sceptical 
hesitation,  or  assumed  the  favourite  scientific  attitude  of  suspended 
judgment  through  a  pair  of  neatly-balanced  and  critical  eye-glasses. 
But,  on  the  whole,  the  sense  of  the  society  was  evidently  in  favour  of 
Harry  Chichele.  Germs  are  catching  ;  and  as  one  man  after  another 
crowded  up  with  sympathetic  smile,  and  told  him  in  varied  language 
what  a  big  thing  this  really  was,  or  how  important  he  considered  the 
final  result  oi  these  beautiful  and  accurate  investigations  of  years, 
Harry  grew  fairly  intoxicated  with  delight  at  last,  and  longed  to  retire, 
sated  and  wearied,  from  this  increasing  tide  of  polite  congratulations. 
The  room  whirled  and  twirled  around  him.  It  was  late,  however, 
before  he  could  get  away  from  the  infinite  hand-shakings  at  Burlington 
House ;  and  then  Mohammad  Ali  bundled  him  somehow  into  a  cab, 


THE  devil's  DIB.  73 

and  drove  him  off,  inebriated  with  the  subtle  fumes  of  success,  from 
the  giddy  scene  of  his  earliest  and  great  scientific  triumph. 

When  he  reached  home,  he  sat  down  the  first  thing,  drunk  with  love 
and  flattery,  and  wrote  one  line  only  in  pencil  to  01  wen.  "  My 
darling, — The  meeting  has  gone  oflF  well.  The  germs  have  triumphed. 
The  theory  turns  out  a  complete  success.  Even  Sir  Roderic  gives  in 
his  adhesion,  and  everybody  declares  it  a  marvellous  discovery. — Yours 
ever,  H.  C." 

Then  he  went  to  bed  and  lay  awake  the  whole  night  through,  tossing 
and  turning,  and  thinking  to  himself  of  the  remote  results  of  his  glor- 
ious theory.  It  was  indeed  a  splendid  and  entrancing  prospect.  The 
world  would  now  be  freed  from  its  worst  terrors,  and  01  wen  should  ride 
in  her  own  carriage. 

Next  day  the  inevitable  reaction  set  in.  It  was  the  morning  of  Wil- 
liam Wilcox's  trial.  Harry  rose  fatigued  from  his  sleepless  couch, 
dressed  himself  slowly  with  evident  carelessness,  and  lounged  round 
late  in  a  morning  coat  to  the  Central  Criminal  Court  to  answer  to  his 
subpoena. 

The  trial  was  already  in  full  swing.  A  fat  little  judge,  with  face  hal ' 
buried  in  his  ample  wig,  filled  the  bench.  Twelve  good  men  and  true, 
of  undoubted  respectability,  but,  to  guess  by  their  looks,  of  most  dubit- 
able  intelligence,  occupied  the  place  usually  assigned  to  the  peers  of  the 
prisoner,  empanelled  by  law  and  the  sheriffs  caprice  to  judge  of  the 
culprit's  guilt  or  innocence.  In  the  dock  stood  the  amiable  periwinke 
merchant  himself,  jaunty,  cold-blooded,  and  unconcerned  as  usual.  In 
his  own  heart,  William  Wilcox,  fish  merchant,  of  Little  Walpole  Street, 
Marylebone,  thought  himself  guilty.  How,  indeed,  could  he  think 
otherwise  ?  He  knew  he  had  smashed  the  gin-bottle  across  his 
wife's  head,  he  knew  he  had  made  her  face  and  neck  bleed  profusely, 
he  knew  she  had  died  (presumably  of  the  wounds)  next  day  in  the 
hospital  ;  and  not  being  by  nature  given  to  casuistry  or  skilled  in  nice 
medical  inquiries  as  to  the  cause  of  death,  he  had  very  little  doubt  in 
his  own  simple  and  vulgar  mind  that,  as  ho  himself  would  have 
delicately  phrased  it,  he  must  have  "  done  for  Sal"  that  night  with  the 
gin-bottle. 

Little  Lizbeth,  now  decently  clothed  and  in  her  right  mind,  was  the 
first  witness  called  for  the  Crown  ;  and  the  Crown,  as  Harry  Chichole 
saw  to  his  immense  relief,  was  evidently'  very  lukewarm  in  the  prosecu- 
tion. That  impersonal  entity,  in  fact,  had  made  its  mind  up  from  its 
previous  inquiries  that  Bill  had  not  really  murdered  his  wife  ;  and  it 
was  therefore  prosecuting  him  chiefly  for  form's  sake,  to  carry  out  the 
findingof  the  coroner's  jury.  But  it  didn't  bolieve  one  bit  in  its  own  case, 
and  it  put  forward  its  witnesses  with  the  perfunctory  formalism  of  an 
unwilling  advocate.  Little  Lizbeth,  however,  soon  showed  that  she  for 
her  part  by  no  means  coincided  in  the  Crown's  lenient  view  of  the 
matter.  The  child  was  clear,  emphatic,  and  damnatory.  Judge  and 
jury  saw  at  once  from  her  excited  manner  that  Lizbeth  by  no  means 
loved  her  father,  and  that  she  regarded  him  chiefly  as  the  wicked  per- 

lon  who  M  brought  about  her  mother's  death.  She  <7as  not  vindiotivo, 


74  THE  devil's  DIK. 

but  she  wag  righteously  indignant ;  and  at  sight  of  Bill,  standing  there 
in  the  dock,  doggedly  and  brutally  jolly  as  ever,  her  indignation  burned 
up  bright  into  white  heat  of  angry  accusation.  At  first  she  could 
hardly  be  got  to  answer  counsel's  questions  coherently,  so  firm-set  was 
she  in  her  one  vigorous  and  distinct  but  too  generalized  opinion  that 
**itwas'im  as  did  it."  After  a  while,  however,  the  Crown  lawyers 
brought  her  by  gentle  and  dexterous  pressure  to  a  more  tractable  frame 
of  mind,  and  she  told  her  story  then,  though  evidently  much  embar- 
rassed by  the  constant  interruption  of  question  and  answer,  with  re- 
markable coherence,  straightforwardness,  and  animus.  So  far  as  Bill's 
safety  was  concerned,  the  last  point  weighed  at  least  as  much  against 
him  as  either  of  the  others  ;  for  nothing  would  have  impressed  the  jury 
more  than  this  evident  belief  in  the  prisoner's  guilt  on  the  part  of  his 
own  orphaned  and  ill-treated  daughter. 

After  Lizbeth  and  the  policemen  had  been  duly  examined,  Harry 
Chichele  was  put  into  the  box  by  the  defendant's  counsel.  As  his  name 
was  given,  the  fat  little  judge's  round  face  lighted  up  agreeably  v  ith  a 
pleasant  smile  of  instantaneous  recognition.  The  TimeSy  in  fact,  had 
had  a  laudatory  leader  on  Harry's  great  discovery  in  that  morning's 
issue,  with  a  full  account  of  last  night's  meeting  at  LliC  Huyal  Society. 
Judges  are  even  (if  possible)  a  shade  more  omniscient  than  most  other 
people  ;  and  the  judge  observed,  leaning  forward  towards  Harry,  with 
an  appreciative  smile  on  his  broad  features,  that  he  supposed  they  might 
take  it  for  granted  Dr.  Chichele  was  the  celebrated  expert  in  zymotic 
diseases,  of  whose  ideas  so  much  had  been  written  of  late.  Harry 
modestly  admitted  the  charge  of  having  engaged  in  some  recent  re- 
searches on  that  difficult  question.  The  jury  pricked  up  their  ears  and 
endeavoured  to  assume  an  intelligent  and  attentive  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, as  befits  twelve  respectable  British  householders,  who  are 
about  to  hear,  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest  the  technical  evidence 
of  a  scientific  witness. 

As  iong  as  the  examination  in  chief  continued,  Harry  Chichele  got 
on  swimmingly  enough.  To  be  sure,  he  asserted  a  little  too  vehemently 
his  belief  that  the  wounds  on  the  face  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the 
cause  of  death,  and  that  the  woman  would  have  died  all  the  same  any- 
how, whether  Bill  had  hit  her  with  the  bottle  or  not ;  for  the  jury, 
which  admired  vehemence  in  little  Lizbeth,  naturally  disliked  it  in 
Harry  Chichele,  as  savouring  too  much  of  scientific  arrogance. 

But  when  it  came  to  cross-examination,  counsel  for  the  Crown,  a 
well-known  and  scientific  Q.C.,  now  warming  up  to  his  work  with  pro- 
fessional interest,  and  seeing  a  chance  for  the  favourite  forensic  amuse- 
ment of  heckling  and  badgering  a  technical  witness,  began  with  a  per- 
fect torrent  of  questions  as  to  Harry  Chichele's  peculiar  medical  ideas 
and  theories  ?  .  ' 

Was  he  a  specialist  in  zymotic  diseases  ? 

Harry  immediately  admitted,  with  a  smile,  that  he  waa. 

Was  he  an  enthusiast  as  to  their  effect  and  universality  t 

Well,  yes,  in  a  sense,  he  must  candidly  allow  that  be  thought  nmch 
pf  their  power  and  importance. 


THB  devil's  DIB.  75 

Had  he  recently  conducted  a  series  of  experiments  npon  germs 
derived  from  this  very  case  ? 

He  had. 

Was  it  essential  to  the  proof  of  his  so-called  theory — with  a  prodigious 
force  of  sarcasm  thrown  into  the  stress  laid  on  the  word  "  so-called" — 
that  the  woman  Wilcox  should  be  held  to  have  died  in  the  last  stage  of 
collapse  in  lodging-house  fever  ? 

Undoubtedly  it  was. 

Had  Harry  stated  that  conviction  of  his  own  as  an  ascertained  fact 
last  night  at  a  meeting  of  the  Royal  Society  ?  (Where,  indeed,  ikie 
distinguished  Q.  O  had  with  his  own  ears  heard  him  so  state  it). 

He  had  (somewhat  nervously). 

The  distinguished  Q.C.  smiled  a  profoundly  meaning  smile,  and 
glanced,  with  immeasurable  import  in  his  look,  at  the  jury.  The  jury, 
puzzled,  but  dimly  conscious  of  what  was  expected  from  them,  smiled 
back  responsive,  with  an  assumed  air  of  the  most  penetrating  wisdom. 
The  judge  shut  his  small  fat  eyes  and  ruminated  inwardly.  Bill,  who 
had  woke  up  with  a  start  for  awhile,  at  the  first  part  of  Harry's  evidence, 
into  a  passing  show  of  interest  in  the  case,  derived  from  a  sudden  gleam 
of  conviction  that  the  doctor  cove  was  going,  by  some  miracle  or  other, 
**  to  help  him  out  of  this  'ere  blooming  predicament,"  now  relapsed  once 
more,  with  sullen  good  humour,  into  his  primitive  indifference,  and 
gave  up  the  case  as  wholly  unworthy  his  exalted  consideration. 

The  more  the  Q.  C.  plied  Harry  with  questions,  all  tending  to  show 
that  he  was  prejudiced  in  favour  of  a  belief  in  death  from  zymotic  dis- 
eases, and  against  the  guilt  of  the  woman's  husband,  the  more  vehement 
and  earnest  did  Harry  become,  and  the  more  profoundly  and  unreserv- 
edly did  the  jury  distrust  him. 

At  last,  in  answer  to  one  of  the  Q.C.'s  final  probing  questions,  Harry 
Chichele  cried  out  with  petulant  eagerness,  **  The  man  is  wholly  inno- 
cent of  this  charge.  To  hang  him  for  it  would  be  nothing  short  of  a 
judicial  murder  1 " 

The  judge  opened  his  closed  eyes  sharoly.  The  jury  whispered  and 
nudged  one  another.  The  eminent  Q.  CT,  putting  his  head  a  little  on 
one  side,  with  a  calm,  cool,  malicious  smile,  observed  in  a  sarcastic 
voice  to  the  witness,  *'  You  may  stand  down  now,  thank  you.  After 
that  very  rhetorical  expression  of  your  private  opinion,  there's  nothing 
more  I  have  to  ask  you." 

Harry  Chichele  stood  down,  flushed  and  indignant.  Counsel  for  the 
defence,  observing  his  condition,  thought  it  wisest,  in  the  prisoner's 
interest,  not  to  re-examine.  Indeed,  the  young  doctor  was  terribly  per- 
turbed in  his  soul.  He  knew  he  had  managed  his  ev)  ^ence  badly.  He 
knew  he  had  made  a  mess  of  the  business.  He  knew  he  had  done 
more  harm  than  good.  He  knew  he  had  succeeded  in  prejudicing  the 
jury  against  the  prisoner's  case.  He  felt  his  face  grow  hot  and  tiery, 
while  those  big  beads  still  stood  cold  and  chill  on  his  forehead.  He 
would  have  given  anything  to  leave  the  court  that  moment,  but  some 
inexorable  attraction  compelled  him  to  wait  and  hear  the  verdict.  He 
•ould  not  tear  himself  away  without  it.     Cost  what  it  might,  he  muat 


76  THE  devil's  Dia. 

B*o  this  thing  out  to  the  bitter  end.  He  must  know  whethe*'  justice 
f\a3  going  to  make  him,  in  spite  (jf  himself,  into  a  double  murderer. 

But  as  he  listened  to  Muhammad  All  and  the  house-surgeon  giving 
their  evidence  with  far  more  coolness  and  deliberation  than  he  had 
done,  his  hopes  began  to  revive  once  more,  and  the  terror  of  that  awful 
possibility  of  the  verdict  to  be  raised  for  awhile  from  his  agonized  con- 
science. For  the  two  other  medical  witnesses,  having  no  special  case 
of  conscience  to  guard  them,  could  bear  their  testimony  far  more 
quietly  and  soberly  in  every  way,  and  as  they  had  also  no  special  theory 
to  support,  it  was  less  easy  for  the  hostile  counsel  to  make  light  of  their 
important  evidence.  They  both  agreed  with  Harry  that  the  wounds 
had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  woman's  collapse,  and  that  the  real 
cause  of  death  was  most  undoubtedly  chill  and  fever.  The  jury  nodded 
lagaciously  among  themselves,  and  Bill  once  more  assumed  afresh  some 
languid  interest  in  this  indifferent  amusement. 

When  all  was  said  and  done,  the  rotund  little  judge  summed-up, 
with  luminous  impartiality  of  the  familiar  stereotyped  non-committing 
character.  It  was  not  denied  (with  fat  right-hand  forefinger  solemnly 
uplifted)  that  severe  wounds  had  been  inflicted  by  the  prisoner  upon 
the  deceased  with  a  broken  gin-bottle.  It  was  not  denied  (with  abrupt 
change  to  the  left  forefinger)  that  deceased  at  the  time  of  this  murder- 
ous assault  was  already  lying  in  a  precarious  condition  from  natural 
causes,  with  lodging-house  fever.  The  evidence  of  the  child  (recapi- 
tulated at  full  with  demonstrative  quill)  went  far  to  show  that  the 
prisoner  had  been  animated  by  homicidal  intent,  and  had  deliberately 
designed  to  kill  his  wife  with  his  singular  but  extremely  eflFective 
weapon.  The  only  real  question  for  their  consideration  was,  had  he  or 
had  he  not  succeeded  in  carrying  his  design  into  execution  ?  If  they 
thought  the  wounds  had  accelerated  death,  then,  and  in  that  case,  they 
must,  of  course,  bring  in  a  verdict  of  guilty.  But  if  they  believed  the 
medical  evidence,  and  if  they  thought  death  would  have  occurred  when 
it  did  occur  under  any  circumstances,  then  they  must  naturally  find  a 
verdict  in  accordance  with  that  more  lenient  and  merciful  opinion.  Of 
the  medical  witnesses.  Dr.  Chichele  was  a  physician  of  immense  and 
undoubted  scientific  attainments  ;  it  would  be  for  the  jury  to  decide 
(with  a  knowing  smile  from  the  fat  small  eyes)  how  far  he  might  have 
been  influenced  in  his  views  on  this  case  by  his  well-known  and  almost 
sentimental  attachment  to  the  zymotic  diseases.  The  zymotic  diseases, 
in  fact,  were  at  one  and  the  same  time  his  forte  and  his  foible.  Dr. 
Mohammad  Ali,  again,  was  a  medical  gentleman  from  Hindoostan,  who 
had  taken  the  oath  after  the  fashion  of  his  faith,  on  a  copy  of  his  sacred 
book,  the  Koran,  and  who  had  given  his  evidence,  the  judge  must  say, 
with  great  care,  straight-forwardness,  and  fidelity.  It  would  be  for  the 
jury,  however,  to  decide  how  far  he  might  have  been  influenced  in  his 
ideas  on  the  subject  by  his  close  connection  with  his  distinguished 
European  colleague.  Dr.  Chichele.  The  same  remark  would,  of  course, 
apply,  miUatis  mutandis  (at  which  the  jury  looked  particularly  clever), 
to  the  other  medical  witness,  Mr.  Macpherson,  the  house-surgeon  of 
the  hospital.  Judicial  wisdMt,  adj  mating  its  wij{,  left  the  matter  wholly 


ffBi  dbtil's  Dll.  TT 

-J  .  I 

to  the  discretion  of  the  jury,  trusting  that,  on  thione  hand,  they  would 
not  attribute  excessive  importance  to  the  antipathies  of  a  ohild  of  tender 
years  and  small  experience,  iior,  on  the  other  hand,  attach  undua 
weight  to  the  emotional  utterances  of  an  amiable  and  accomplished 
professional  gentleman,  whose  task  it  was  to  preserve  life  under  all 
circumstances,  and  who,  perhaps,  might  be  tempted  by  pure  goodness 
of  heart  to  carry  too  far  that  natural  bias  into  a  peculiar  sphare  of 
thought  and  action  in  which  it  was  no  longer  justly  applicable. 

Primed  and  enlightened  by  this  lucid  statement,  the  jury  retired  to 
consider  their  verdict ;  and  Harry  Chichele,  with  parched  lips  uid 
haggard  eyes,  broken  down  by  the  reaction  after  last  night's  unnatural 
triumph  and  exaltation,  was  left  alone  for  twenty  minutes  in  thsA 
crowded  court  with  his  own  conscience. 

Two  men  stood  there  together,  indeed,  both  equally  on  their  trial, 
though  not  both  in  the  same  manner.  The  prisoner  at  the  bar  stood 
cool  and  careless,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  unmoved  as  ever.  But 
Harry  Chichele,  the  true  culprit,  leaned  for  support  faintly  against  the 
rail  of  the  dock,  and  awaited  with  feverish  and  breathless  anxiety  the 
return  of  the  jury.  His  face  was  pale  and  white  as  death.  A  terrible 
fixed  expression  sat  upon  his  features.  His  eyes  turned  eagerly  towards 
the  door  of  the  jury-room.  An  awful  moment  of  doubt  tormented  him. 
He  knew  whose  case  was  most  truly  in  jeopardy.  He  could  never  let 
that  unhappy  man  be  hanged  in  his  own  place.  It  was  for  his  own 
verdict  that  he  was  really  waiting.  His  own  verdict — ^his  own,  and 
Olwen's. 

For  if  the  jury  brought  it  in  guilty,  it  would  be  all  up  with  himsftlf 
and  with  Olwen. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Fob  twenty  minutes  the  suspense  was  terrible.  Harry  waited  there, 
worn  and  pale,  haggard  with  sleeplessness,  hearing  his  own  heart  beat 
each  moment  in  his  breast  meanwhile,  and  drawing  his  breath  deep  and 
irregularly.  What  an  eternity  it  seemed,  that  long,  slow  interval,  while 
the  twelve  good  men  and  true  in  their  own  room  sat  debating  the  case 
at  their  leisure  by  themselves,  and  deciding  with  thorough-going  British 
stolidity  upon  their  verdict  of  life  and  death  for  William  Wilcox  and 
Harry  Chichele.  He  hardly  dared  to  glance  around  him  even,  ao 
awfully  did  the  horrible  chances  of  mishap  weigh  upon  his  soul.  He  kept 
his  eyes  firmly  fixed  the  whole  time  upon  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  who 
had  BO  much  less  to  lose  by  the  verdict  than  he,  and  could  lose  it  all 
ten  thousand  times  more  carelessly.  If  only  Harry  could  have  thought 
him  guilty  1  If  only  he  could  have  believed  it  was  the  wounds  that 
killed  her  1  But  he  knew  him  to  be  innocent — he  knew  him  to  be 
innocent ;  and  to  let  an  innocent  man  suffar  a.t  tba  bands  of  offeadtd 


f%  THB   devil's   DIB. 

jiutice  in  his  own  place  would  indeed  have  revolted  the  inmost  and 
most  sacred  feelings  of  his  nature. 

It  is  hard  to  have  such  a  character  as  his  ;  hard  to  be  able  to  sin  ao 
boldly,  and  yet  to  pr.y  for  it  like  the  veriest  tyro. 

What  would  he  do  if  the  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  guilty  ?  He 
did  not  know.  He  could  not  determine.  How,  or  where,  or  when  to 
confess  the  truth,  and  to  save  that  brutal  ruffian  from  amply-merited — 
yet  unjust— punishment,  ho  could  not  decide  ;  but  save  him  he  must, 
and  at  all  hazards.  Strong  as  he  was,  he  was  not  hardened.  It  would 
be  terrible  for  Olwen  !  Death  for  Olwen  1  But  justice  must  be  done, 
though  the  heavens  fall  in  upon  us.  Come  what  might,  he  must  secure 
plain  justice  for  the  man  Wilcox. 

At  last  the  jury  filed  slowly  back  into  their  accustomed  place.  A 
hushed  stillness  fell  upon  the  court.  Harry  Chichele,  pale  as  death, 
leaned  eagerly  forward  on  the  rail  to  listen.  Even  Bill  himself,  though 
impassive  still,  and  desirous  as  ever  to  preserve  his  wonted  equanimity, 
yet  showed  signs  of  a  certain  suppressed  internal  anxiety  to  hear  theif 
decision.  A  heightened  colour  flushed  his  florid  cheek,  and  the  corners 
of  his  heavy  square-set  mouth  were  twitching  nervously. 

•'  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  are  you  all  agreed  upon  your  verdict  ? " 

•♦We  are." 

*'  Do  you  find  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty  or  not  guilty  of  wilful 
murder?" 

Dead  silence  prevailed  through  the  room  as  the  foreman  answered  in 
slow  and  measured  tones — 
'     "  We  find  him  guilty." 

At  the  words,  an  awful  horror  darkened  for  the  moment  Harry 
Chichele's  eyes.  He  clutched  the  rail  to  keep  himself  from  falling. 
The  room  reeled  and  swam  around  him.  His  heart  was  beating  vio- 
lent now,  and  his  breath  came  and  went  in  short  sharp  snaps,  with 
feverish  rapidity.  He  hardly  heard  the  rest  of  the  proceedings.  It  was 
as  in  a  dream,  vaguely,  that  he  thought  he  saw  the  judge,  with  solemn 
formality,  assume  the  black  cap,  and  pass  sentence  of  death  upon  William 
Wilcox  for  the  murder  that  he  himself  had  really  committed. 

Things  had  indeed  come  to  a  terrible  pass.  When  Harry  Chichele 
accelerated  the  departure  of  that  miserable  creature  in  the  cot  at  the 
hospital,  he  had  never  dreamt  of  such  an  end  as  this.  He  had  taken  it 
for  granted  that  the  clear  and  certain  medical  evidence  which  he  and 
his  colleafTues  could  produce  in  court  would  exonerate  her  husband  from 
all  possibility  of  blame  in  the  matter.  He  had  imagined  that  a  jury 
would  accept  his  statement  of  the  cause  of  death  as  absolutely  infall- 
ible. And  now — he  opened  his  eyes  in  terror.  A  ghastly  phantas- 
magoria floated  before  his  face.  Solemn  sounds  echoed  dimly  in  his 
ringing  ears.  It  was  the  judge's  voice  passing  sentence.  "  And  there 
hanged  by  the  neck  till  dead,"  it  said  with  grave  emphasis.  "And 
may  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  your  soul  1  " 

May  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  your  soul  !     May  the  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  your  soul  !     VVliDse  soul  ?    That  creature  Bill's  ?  Nono, 
his  own  ;  Harry  Chichele'a.     F^'"  '^'  was  Uariy  Chichele's  condemnLtion 


THK  devil's   DIl.  79 

that  he  heard  echoing  through  that  phantom  court ;  tho  judge  was 
really  passing  sentence,  he  felt,  not  upon  Bill,  not  upon  Bill,  that 
miserable  rullian,  but  upon  him,  upon  him — upon  the  real  culprit,  Harry 
Chichele  I 

A  buzz  and  bustle  possessed  the  room.  The  prisoner  was  led  down 
doggedly  from  the  dock.  The  crowd  melted  away  piecemeal,  its  excite- 
ment over,  from  the  body  of  the  court.  A  fresh  prisoner  was  brought 
up  to  the  bar.  New  witnesses  crowded  into  their  p]ace  by  the  door. 
Counsel  and  judge,  beginning  over  again,  ashamed  fresh  attitudes  for 
their  altered  parts.  Another  drama  was  being  enacted  now  on  the 
scene  of  that  ever-changing  theatre.  But  Harry  Chichele  stood  there 
still,  incapable  of  movement,  thought,  or  action  ;  and  Mohammad  All 
stood  beside  him,  with  his  hand  set  hard  upon  his  trembling  arm,  half 
pitying  the  man  in  his  alarm  and  terror.  For  a  while  he  seemed  as  if 
rivetted  to  the  spot.  At  last  Ali  led  him  gently  away,  hurried  him 
once  more  into  a  hansom  at  the  kerb,  and  drove  him  back,  silent  and 
moody,  to  the  Regent's  Park  Hospital. 

In  his  rooms,  little  Lizbeth  met  him,  jubilant.  "  Well,  they're 
a-goin'  for  to 'ang  'im,"  she  said  triumphantly.  "I'm  ju^t  glad  at 
they're  a-goin'  for  to  'ang  'im.  Some  of  'em  say  the  Queen'U  pardon 
*im,  becoz  o*  the  medical  evidence  bein'  for  'im.  But  I  'ope  she  won't. 
She's  got  no  call  to.     They'd  ought  to  'ang  'im  for  murderin'  mother  1  ** 

The  child's  exclamation  brought  a  gleam  of  hope  to  Harry's  bewild- 
ered mind.  He  had  been  too  pre-occupied  even  to  think  of  that  obvioui 
loophole.  A  pardon  1  A  pardon  !  The  Home  Secretary  was  no  British 
juryman.  He,  at  least,  was  an  educated  gentleman  ;  a  person  of 
responsibility  ;  a  man  of  sense  and  experience  and  judgment.  He 
would  recognize  at  once  it  was  a  foolish  miscarriage.  He  would  listen 
to  the  voice  of  medical  science.  He  would  hear  what  those  who  knew 
had  to  say  upon  the  subject.  He  would  prevent  this  gross  perversion 
of  justice. 

Burning  with  eagerness,  he  turned  to  consult  Mohammad  Ali.  "  We 
must  see  the  Home  Secretary  this  very  day,"  he  cried.  **  The  man 
must  not  be  hanged.     It's  wicked.     It's  incredible." 

"  'E  smashed  'er  'ead  in,"  Lizbeth  put  in  manfully,  **  'an  'e  said  'e'd 
do  for  her.  'E  meant  for  to  kill  *er,  and  they'd  ought  to  'ang  him  for  ife. 
That's  wot  the  laws  is  for,  ain't  it  ?" 

*'  No  zeal,  my  dear  fellow,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  endeavouring 
to  restrain  him.  "  You  lost  the  case  in  court  by  too  much  zeal.  Don't 
lose  it  out  of  court  by  the  same  indiscretion." 

But  Harry  was  not  to  be  restrained  now.  His  whole  life  concentrated 
itself  at  once  on  that  one  point,  with  the  usual  fiery  concentration  of 
his  nature  when  once  aroused.  He  lived  only,  for  the  moment,  for  that 
single  purpose,  to  get  that  atrocious  verdict  set  aside,  and  to  secure  ft 
free  pardon  for  William  Wilcox. 

For  the  next  week,  indeed,  he  lived  for  nothing  else.  Of  course,  he 
was  met  at  every  turn  by  red  tape  in  endless  profusion  ;  but  when 
Harry  Chichele  once  took  a  thing  fairly  into  his  head  red  tape  was  not 
a  strong  enough  material  to  prevent  him  froro  carrying  his  design  into 


80  THE   devil's   die. 

execntion.  One  morning  shortly  after,  as  he  walked  with  fiery  *arneflt- 
ness  down  Whitehall,  he  met  Ivan  Royle,  now  a  different  man,  strolling 
up  from  Westminster  to  Pall  Mall.  Ivan,  just  back  in  town,  was  atruck 
at  once  with  the  change  in  his  appearance.  *'  Why,  my  dear  fellow," 
he  cried,  "  who  has  painted  you  all  out,  and  put  you  in  again  several 
tones  lower  ? " 

Harry  explained  with  eager  heat  the  nature  of  the  situation — sup- 
pressing, of  course,  the  unessential  detail  of  the  ice-bag. 

His  evident  sincerity  impressed  Ivan  most  favourably  as  to  his 
humai>e  sentiments.  "  The  black  man  was  wrong,"  the  painter  thought 
to  himself,  with  generous  appreciation  of  his  rival's  merits.  *'  Chichele'a 
a  kind-hearted  man  at  bottom. 

At  last,  by  almost  superhuman  efforts,  he  broke  through  the  endless 
oarriers  of  red  tape  that  block  up  the  doors  and  gateways  of  Whitehall 
hnd  Downing  Street,  and  obtained  a  personal  interview  from  the  Home 
Secretary  for  himself,  the  house  surgeon,  and  Mohammad  Ali. 

That  was  a  real  step  in  advance.  The  medical  evidence  was  too 
unanimous  for  even  a  Homo  Secretary  to  disregard.  When  Harry 
Chichele  emerged  into  Whitehall  once  more  that  morning  it  was  with 
a  positive  promise  from  the  elusive  and  evasive  right  honourable  gentle- 
man that  her  Majesty  would  be  graciously  pleased  to  pardon  William 
Wilcox  for  the  crime  which,  in  fact,  he  had  never  committed.  That  is 
the  utmost  to  which  British  justice  can  ever  nerve  itself.  So  firm  and 
inflexible  and  infallible  is  it,  that  when  once  it  has  found  a  man  guilty, 
right  or  wrong,  the  angel  Gabriel  himself  could  never  prevail  to  have 
the  prisoner  declared  really  innocent.  British  justice  can  never  reverse 
%  sentence  ;  it  can  only  grant  a  free  pardon.  It  saves  its  consistency 
at  the  expense  of  its  victim. 

Armed  with  even  that  insufficient  assurance,  however,  Harry  Chi- 
chele stepped  forth  into  Whitehall  ano^.lier  being.  He  felt  a  free  man 
now.  A  terrible  burden  had  been  lifted  from  tiis  shoulders.  01  wen 
was  saved,  and  he  himself  need  never  confess  that — well,  that  unfortu- 
nate little  indiscretion  of  the  ice-bag. 

Once  more  the  reaction  wa«  sudden  and  violent.  Harry  Chi- 
chele'a gaiety  became,  in  fact,  ludicrously  extreme.  Mohammad  Ali 
noticed  it  with  profound  suspicion.  Why  should  the  man  have  thrown 
himself  so  fervidly  into  this  work  of  xni^-  cy  ?  Why  should  he  have 
embraced  it  with  such  fiery  eagerness  ?  Why  should  he  exhibit  the 
recoil  and  relief  of  his  strained  feelings  with  such  boyish  exuberance  of 
delight  and  freedom?  It  looked  all  the  same  way.  Surely  there  was 
the  sense  of  personal  danger  and  personal  escape  expressed  in  his  vio- 
lent and  overwrought  emotion. 

When  they  reached  home,  Harry  flung  himself  down  in  his  easy-chair, 
laughed  and  talked  with  almost  hysterical  hilarity,  and  astonished  Ivan 
Royle,  who  had  dropped  in  to  see  his  Polperran  friends,  by  the 
unwonted  boisterousnesB  of  his  conversation.  The  cloud  was  fairly 
lifted  from  hia  life  now,  and  he  and  Olwen  might  be  happy  together. 
After  all,  he  almost  wondared  he  had  been  such  a  fool  as  to  takathinga 
\fi  he)irt  HO  aeriouBly  m  he  bad  done.    He  mi^^ht  hftve  known  the  Hon* 


THE  devil's  DIB.  81 

Secretary,  at  least,  would  listen  to  reason.  These  politicians  are  sensi- 
ble men — men  oi  the  world — not  mere  pettifogging  pedants  like  the 
English  judges.  Everything  was  going  so  well,  now,  that  he  could 
hardly  understand  his  own  terrors  and  alarms  yesterday.  The  case 
was  finished  ;  the  man  was  pardoned.  His  theory  was  proved.  The 
Royal  Society  had  virtually  accepted  it  and  stamped  his  doctrine  with 
the  seal  of  their  approval.  He  would  be  rich  and  famous  and  honoured 
still  ;  and  before  long  he  would  doubtless  be  able  to  marry  Olwen. 

The  intoxication  of  success  had  come  over  him  once  mo)'e.  The  little 
episode  of  the  ice-bag  was  already  dismissed  with  sublime  indiflFerence 
from  his  brain  and  his  conscience. 

For,  after  all,  it  was  all  right  now.  No  harm  had  been  done — or 
none  worth  speaking  of  ;  and  endless  good  had  accrued  in  the  end  to 
humanity  at  large,  and  to  himself  and  Olwen.  To  be  sure  this  awkward 
little  hitch  had  intervened,  as  hitches  will  sometimes  unexpectedly 
intervene  in  all  human  designs  and  operations.  '*  The  best-laid  schemes 
o'  mice  and  men  gang  aft  agley,"  as  the  poet  has  told  us.  But  that 
was  an  accident—a  passing  accident  ;  the  solid  good  remained 
untouched  behind  it.  A  glorious  means  of  averting  epidemic  disease 
had  now  been  found;  and  he  and  Olwen  might  be  all  the  happier 
for  it. 

"And yet,"  he  said  aloud  at  last,  after  a  long  pause,  to  Ivan  Royle, 
*'  this  business  has  given  me  a  lesson,  anyhow.  I  shall  steer  clear  in 
future  of  all  these  murder  cases.  They're  too  much  anxiety  for  a  pro- 
fessional man.     They  involve  such  a  lot  of  trouble  and  bother." 

"  But  how  can  you  steer  clear  of  them  ?  "  Mohammad  Ali  interposed 
with  a  puzzled  air.  *'  You  couldn't  possibly  have  avoided  this  one,  for 
instance.  It  was  thrust  upon  you,  without  your  seeking.  You  didn't 
know  it  would  end  in  a  trial." 

**  True,"  Harry  answered,  a  little  uneasily.  He  was  far  too  candid 
in  speaking  out  his  thoughts.  It  was  so  hard  to  bear  in  mind  always 
how  others  looked  at  this  little  matter.  He  must  be  more  guarded  in 
his  language  in  future,  or  that  sharp  fellow,  Ali,  with  his  Indian  acute- 
nesa,  would  begin  to  suspect  him  of  knowing  more  than  ho  said  about  it. 

There  was  one  comforu,  however  ;  let  Ali  prick  up  his  ears  and  pick 
up  his  hints  as  much  as  he  liked,  he  could  never  have  more  than  the 
merest  and  vaguest  suspicion  in  the  matter.  The  crime  itself — he  sup- 
posed conventional  people  would  call  it  a  crime  in  their  absurd  way — 
was  absolutely  trackless.  The  ice  was  melted.  He  had  unstitched  the 
waterproof  bags  ages  ago,  and  not  a  particle  of  evidence  anywhere 
remained  to  bring  the  facts  of  the  case  home  to  him.  He  had  manu'.jed 
it  cleverly  ;  very  cleverly.  When  a  bungler  tries  this  sort  of  thing,  ytu 
know,  he  makes  a  miserable  mess  of  it,  of  course  ;  but  with  the  cool, 
collected  brain  and  hands  of  the  man  of  science,  success  in  a  physio- 
logical and  personal  experiment  of  this  sort  becomes  almost  an  absolute 
certainty. 

He  was  quite  proud  of  the  result  now.  He  had  never,  in  his  whole 
professional  course,  managed  a  difficult  and  doubtful  case  more  cleverly 
And  BuccessfuUjr* 

m 


S2  THB  DETIl's  DIK. 

As  he  sat  in  his  rooms  a  little  later  with  Ivan  Royle  and  Ali,  by  that 
evening's  post  a  letter  arrived  for  him,  "  On  Her  Majesty's  Service." 
Letter«i  on  her  Majesty's  service  were  uncommon  events  with  Harry 
Chichele  ;  and  after  the  manifold  changes  and  turns  of  circumstances, 
with  their  varying  emotions,  in  the  last  few  weeks,  this  one  caustid  him 
no  little  momentary  anxiety.  He  looked  at  it  cautiously  front  and 
back,  before  he  dared  to  break  the  big  red  official  seal,  (jr  to  o])en  atid 
read  what  it  had  to  say  to  him.  Could  that  perfidious  Home  Secretary 
have  played  him  false  after  all,  and  violated  his  doubly-pledged  right 
honourable  word  in  the  matter  of  the  pardon  ?  Could  he  mean  to 
hang  the  man  Bill  ?  Was  this  whole  sickening  and  ghastly  ej)isode  to 
be  lived  right  over  again  from  the  very  beginning  ?  Harry  Chichele 
turned  deadly  pale  at  the  bare  idea,  and  his  delicate  fingers  trembled 
visibly  as  he  tried  to  tear  open  that  mysterious  letter.  Mohammad  Ali, 
still  watching  him  close  with  his  cat-like  gaze,  noticed  how  he  fumbled 
and  boggled  over  the  seal,  and  how  his  bloodless  lips  were  quivering 
tremoulously  with  suppressed  excitement. 

At  last  he  tore  the  letter  open.  Its  contents  were  short,  plain  and 
startling.  This  was  what  Harry  Chichele  read,  to  his  utter  surprise, 
in  the  large,  round,  legible  official  hand  on  the  big  sheet  of  clean  white 
foolscap  with  the  ample  allowance  of  folded  margin : — 

**  Sir, 

"  I  am  directed  by  the  Right  Honourable  the  Secretary  of 
State  for  the  Home  Department,  to  inform  you  that  her  Majesty  has 
been  graciously  pleased  to  approve  of  your  name  as  first  occupant  o£ 
the  new  professorial  chair  of  medical  aatiology  recently  founded  a| 
University  College,  London.  The  emoluments  of  the  chair  will  bo 
£800  (eight  hundred  pounds)  per  Minum. — I  have  the  honour  to  be* 
Sir, 

**  Your  obedieni  servant, 

"Ralph  Obmbrod." 

Harry  dropped  the  2e*iter^  speechlose  with  surprise.  So  this  waa 
what  that  curious  little  episode  had  brought  him.  He  saw  Sir  Roderic's 
finger  in  it  all.  How  could  he  ever  have  been  such  an  idiot  as  to  take 
BO  much  to  heart  the  small  inconveniences  it  had  momentarily  entailed 
upon  him.  Great  enterprises  invariably  require  skill  and  patience. 
But  this  was  the  reward  of  his  courage  and  his  research.  After  all,  the 
old  maxim  holds  good  as  ever,  still,  and  wisdom  is  justified  of  all  her 
children. 

By  his  own  hand,  by  his  own  hand,  he  had  done  it.  A  fool  would 
have  let  the  opportunity  slip,  and  allowed  the  miserable  obscure  Ger- 
man to  walk  off  unobserved  with  the  honours  of  discovery.  A  coward 
would  have  shrunk  from  putting  the  well-desi'^ned  plan  into  execution, 
and  would  hHve  failed  at  the  last  moment  in  the  courage  of  his  convic- 
tions. But  ho,  Harry  (Ihichele,  by  his  own  hand,  had  done  it.  He 
had  boldly  conceived  and  Bucco.'-Hfully  curried  out  that  admirable  exper- 
iment for  prvvin{{  ur  dispruviiig   thu  truth  of  his  theory.     Ue  had 


THE  devil's  DIB.  83 

plnrned  wisely  and  ventured  well.    And,  verily,  now  he  had  his  reward 
— u  R  'yal  professorship  of  eight  hundred  per  annum. 

Ivan  Royle,  directed  by  a  nod  from  Harry,  was  reading  the  letter. 
"My  dear  fellow,"  he  cried  with  an  hearty  and  heartfelt  shake  of  the 
hand,  "I'm  awfully  glad  1     I  congratulate  you  most  sincerely  on  your 
good  luck.     You  deserve  it  all.     But  what  in  heaven's  name  is  medical 
aetiology  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XVL 

What  is  one  solitary  human  life  to  a  true  philospher  ?  In  a  week 
or  two  more  the  "  little  episode,"  as  Harry  always  called  it  in  his  own 
mind,  was  as  clean  dead  and  buried  and  forgotten  as  Sal  herself  in  her 
nameless  pauper  grave  at  Kensal  Green  Couietery.  When  once  the 
turmoil  and  trouble  of  the  trial  were  over  :  when  Bill  much  to  his  own 
blank  astonishment,  had  duly  received  his  free  pardon  ;  when  a  couple 
of  pounds  lawful  coin  of  the  realm,  transferred  from  Harry  Chichele's 
pocket,  had  purchased  the  entire  fee  simple  of  little  Lizbeth,  besides 
setting  the  periwinkle  business  once  more  afloat  as  a  going  concern,  with 
new  properties  and  decorations  throughout — when  all  these  things  had 
satisfactorily  happened  in  turn,  Harry  Chichele  had  so  much  to  occupy 
his  mind  in  other  ways  that  he  almost  ceased  to  think  of  the  little  epi- 
sode itself  at  all  in  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  his  manifold  engagements. 

For  first  of  all,  there  was  the  new  professorship  to  undertake — that 
mynterious  professorship  of  the  aetiology  of  disease,  the  very  meaning 
of  whose  name  he  was  obliged  to  explain  with  profuse  learning  to 
everybody  he  came  across  for  the  next  six  months.  "  What  the  dick- 
ens is  (etiology  ?  "  became  to  him  so  familiar  a  question  at  clubs,  as 
"Oh,  Dr.  Chichele,  do  please  tell  us  what  aetiology  means  1"  became 
in  drawing-rooms,  that  before  long  he  learnt  to  recognize  instinctively 
the  very  purso  of  the  lips  that  ushered  it  in,  and  could  answer  the  out- 
spoken query  oflliand  before  it  was  even  fairly  propounded.  The  chair 
of  aitiology,  it  may  be  readily  imagined,  is  a  very  serious  chair  indeed 
for  a  man  to  fill  ;  and  Harry  felt  in  his  heart  that  so  younec  and  inex- 
perienced a  person  as  he  was  must  do  his  level  best  in  eye-glasses  and 
deportment  to  till  it  with  becoming  grace  and  dignity.  So  the  "  duties 
of  his  oftice,"  as  he  loved  to  say  with  m\7ch  gusto,  occupied  the  larger 
part  of  his  time  and  energy  at  present—  at  least,  the  larger  part  of  the 
residue  leftover  after  the  alternative  and  equally  important  duties  of 
his  onerous  daily  correspondence  with  Olwen  Tregellas. 

For  love,  too,  is  an  exacting  taskmaster  ;  he  imposes  upon  whomever 
he  catches  in  his  firm  clutch  no  mean  amount  of  literary  labour.  And 
now  that  these  elusive  germs  were  fairly  settled,  and  the  question  of 
the  pardon  fairly  solved,  and  the  chair  of  aetiology  fairly  set  up  in  work- 
ing order  on  its  own  four  solid  and  sensible  legs,  Harry  Chichele, 
looking  about  him  with  a  freer  glance  at  the  world  at  large,  began  to 


84  THE  devil's  DI8. 

reflect  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  a  place  had  at  last  been  created  worthy 
of  Olwen,  and  that  Olwen  herself  might  now  not  ungracefully  be 
invited  in  her  own  good  time  to  come  and  fill  it.  He  mentioned  this 
reflection  casually  one  morning  to  Mohammad  Ali  ;  and  Mohammed 
Ali,  shaking  his  head  in  a  somewhat  oracular  fashion,  answered  that  he 
had  expected  as  much  himsfilf,  and  answered,  Harry  somehow  fancied 
to  his  surprise,  as  if  he  didn  t  exactly  relish  the  prospect  either. 

Next  day  Mohammed  Ali  called  early  at  Ivan  Royle's  studio  in  old 
Kensington.  He  found  the  painter  in  his  velveteen  coat  and  Rem- 
brandt cap,  busily  engaged  in  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  a  Cornish 
picture.  It  was  a  pretty  little  glimpse  of  dark  red  rock  and  blue  sea 
in  a  tiny  cove,  not  far  from  Polperran,  and  the  foreground  was  occu- 
pied by  a  light  and  graceful  girlish  figure  in  a  flowery  summer  dress, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  small  white  hand,  and  gazing  eagerly  to  sea- 
ward for  some  expected  vessel.  On  an  easel  by  the  side  stood  the 
original  study  of  a  Cornish  girl,  from  which  the  figure  itself  had  been 
filled  in — a  careful  and  delicately  appreciative  study  of  Olwen  Tregel- 
las.  There  was  poetry  in  every  detail  of  her  pose  ;  there  was  soul  in 
every  line  and  turn  of  her  features. 

Mohammad  Ali  looked  at  it  long  and  smiled  sadly.  "  Still  working 
at  her,  Royle,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  gentle  and  almost  melancholy 
cadence. 

"  Still  working  at  her,  my  dear  fellow,"  Ivan  Royle  replied,  looking 
up  from  his  palette  ;  *'  and  I  shall  work  at  her,  I  suppose,  more  or  less 
now,  as  long  as  I  remain  in  the  land  of  the  living.  A  face  like  that, 
once  seen,  burns  itself  into  the  very  fabric  of  a  painter's  brain  ;  he  can 
never  long  keep  it  out  of  his  thoughts  or  his  canvas." 

*'  Harry  Chichele's  going  to  be  married,"  Mohammad  Ali  broke  out 
brusquely.  He  made  no  sort  of  introduction  or  apology  for  his  sudden 
speech.  He  flung  the  fact,  as  it  were,  full  in  Ivan  Royle's  face,  and 
then  waited  for  him  to  resent  it  and  retaliate. 

"  So  I  expected,"  Ivan  answered  with  a  quiet  sigh,  standing  back  a 
,pace  or  two  off  from  the  easel,  and  inspecting  his  handicraft  with  modesfs 
complacency.  *' It  can't  be  helped.  Perhaps — I  don't  know — it's  all 
for  the  best.     Perhaps  he's  wortlwer  of  her,  Ali,  than  I  am." 

*'  It  is  not  for  the  best,"  Mohammad  Ali  replied  bitterly.  **  It's  for 
the  worst,  for  the  worst,  very  much  for  the  worst.  Royle,  my  heart 
sinks  within  me  to  think  of  it.  I  distrust  that  man,  I  disbelieve  in 
that  man.  I  fear  that  man,  .^r  Olwen  Tregellas.  Can't  we  do  any- 
thing anyhow  to  prevent  it  ?  " 

*'  I  d(m't  see  that  we  can,"  Ivan  answered  after  a  short  pause.  "  She 
loves  him  and  prefers  him.  Her  will  is  law  in  such  a  matter.  It  would 
be  ungenerous  and  unmanly  of  me  even  to  try  to  interfere  between 
them,  supposing  I  saw  my  way  to  doing  it.  Why  do  you  mistrust  him, 
Ali  ?  Why  do  you  disbelieve  in  him  ?  Have  you  seen  or  heard  any> 
thing  fresh  to  set  you  against  him  ?  Or  is  it  still  only  the  old  Begum 
business  ?" 

Mohammad  Ali  took  »  seah  by  the  window,  and  began  by  very 
delicate  side  hints  to  impart  his  latest  suspicion  to  Ivan.     He  dida't 


THK  DETIL*S  DI8.  8A 

■ay  what  he  thought  or  fancied  outright,  but  told  his  story  carefully 
and  suggestively,  dwelling  upon  each  suspicious  point  exactly  as  it  had 
•truck  him.  Before  he  had  got  half  way  through  with  it,  however,  he 
became  dimly  aware  that  the  tale  was  falling  quite  flat  on  Ivan's  simple, 
■traightf(jrward  English  nature.  The  Englishman  listened  with  polite 
incredulity.  He  could  not  believe  so  much  harm  of  any  one  so  trans- 
parently kind-hearted  and  well-meaning  as  Harry  Chichele.  When 
Mohammad  Ali,  by  well-pieced  hints  and  scattered  fragments  of  Harry's 
conversation,  had  fairly  brought  out  the  true  nature  of  his  profound 
suspicion,  Ivan  clapped  his  hand  on  the  Indian's  shoulder  with  a  smile 
of  something  like  genuine  amusement,  and  exclaimed  heartily,  "My 
dear  friend,  this  won't  do.  You're  on  the  wrong  tack — on  the  wrong 
tack  entirely.  Your  cleverness  positively  overshoots  itself.  You're 
allowing  your  own  predilections,  and  your  own  subtlety  and  ingenuity 
of  mind  to  run  away  with  you  and  lead  you  at  last  into  very  queer  and 
impossible  places.  This  kind  of  thing  may  be  believed  in  India,  you 
know,  but  it's  too  diabolically  and  horribly  clever  to  go  down  in 
England." 

He  didn't  add — how  could  he  ? — that  in  his  own  heart  the  very  fact 
of  Mohammad  Ali's  having  hit  upon  such  a  black  suspicion  had  pre- 
judiced him  a  little  against  the  Indian  himself.  Nobody  had  a  right  to 
start  such  ideas  about  other  people.  Even  if  a  white  man  had  hinted 
so  ghastly  a  thing  as  that  to  him  about  anybody  else,  it  would  have 
given  him  a  worse  opinion  of  his  informant  ;  when  a  black  man  does  it, 
all  the  profoundest  and  cruolost  race  instincts  of  our  nature  are  aroused 
against  him,  and  we  say  to  ourselves  with  our  European  complacency, 
"  No  Englishman  would  ever  have  invented  anything  so  grotesquely 
wicked  and  so  utterly  inadecjuate." 

Ivan  Royle,  indeed,  recoiled  a  little  from  Ali's  suggestion,  as  every- 
body always  must  recoil  from  the  imputation  of  serious  crime  against  a 
man  with  whom  we  have  ever  lived  on  terms  of  intimate  familiarity  ; 
and  the  recoil  made  him  look  more  favourably  than  before  upon  Harry 
Chichele's  pretensions  and  wishes.  In  his  own  manly,  straightforward 
English  way,  he  was  quite  ready  to  confess  himself  beaten,  in  love  or 
war,  without  casting  imputations  on  his  rival's  character,  or  listening 
to  horrible,  ill-founded  hints  that  told  against  his  probable  future  con- 
duct. Hl  laughed  down  Ali's  recondite  speculations  ;  and  Ali  himself, 
seeing  how  Ivan's  bright  and  sunny  nature  could  brush  away  the  very 
imputation  of  evil,  felt  himself  for  the  moment  half  reassured  by  the 
interview,  and  ventured  still  to  hope  the  best  for  Olwen. 

If  only  he  could  have  forgotten  the  8t<^)ry  of  the  Begum  I 

Two  days  lit  or  Harry  Ohichelu  stepped  round  in  exuberant  spirits  to 
his  friend's  studio  to  inform  Ivan  that  a  date  had  now  been  fixed  for 
the  wedding,  and  to  ask  him  whether,  as  the  happy  event  wr.8  to  take 
place  at  Polperran,  ho  would  assume  the  arduous  duties  of  best  man  io 
memory  of  their  first  meting  in  Cornwall. 

Woi'ld  fate  intervene  to  prevent  the  marriage  ?  Fate  can  never  be 
trusted  at  a  pinch.  So  it  came  to  pass  before  many  week^  WWe  OTer 
that  Olwen  Trugollas  was  really  married  to  Harry  GIhc^jqIq* 


66  THB  devil's  die. 

Harry  had  altogether  forgotten  now  everything  about  the  little 
episode.  He  had  never  from  the  first  had  any  shadow  or  fear  of 
detection — detection,  indeed,  was  morally  impossible :  and  now  that 
the  difficulty  about  Bill  was  well  overcome,  and  little  Lizbeth  decently 
settled  in  life,  he  had  ceased  to  trouble  his  philosophic  head  any  more 
about  the  matter,  Being  by  nature  an  even-tempered  and  light-hearted 
person  (save  when  profound  emotions  intervened  to  stir  his  soul  to  its 
inmost  depths),  he  had  cast  aside  the  entire  subject  once  for  all  ;  and 
now,  intoxicated  with  success  and  in.  the  full  flush  of  love  and  happineaa, 
he  looked  and  really  was  as  handsome,  open,  and  proud  a  bridefrrooin 
as  any  girl  within  the  four  sea  walls  of  Britain  could  wish  to  marry. 

Ivan  Royle,  too,  accepted  his  doubtful  duties  as  best  man  (for  no 
authority  has  ever  yet  been  able  satisfactorily  to  define  the  precise 
nature  of  a  best  man's  functions)  with  much  manful  kindliness  and  good 
nature.  Olwen  had  blushed  a  little,  indeed,  when  Harry  first  men- 
tioned to  her  that  he  had  selected  Ivan  for  that  particular  post ;  but 
Ivan  himself  had  greeted  her  on  his  arrival  with  so  much  frank  cordi- 
ality and  genuine  good  feeling  that  Olwen  gladly  recognized  in  him  a 
true  friend,  and  forgot  her  first  little  timid  hesitancy. 

Among  the  wedding  presents,  by  far  the  handsomest  was  a  set  of 
antique  oriental  dessert  knives  and  forks — solid  silver,  with  exquisite 
inlaid  ivory  handles — bearing  in  rather  arabesque  letters  on  the  cover 
of  the  box  a  neat  inscription,  "  H.  O.  0. — from  Mohammad  All." 
Harry  Chichele  looked  at  them  with  admiration  and  surprise.  Moham- 
mad Ali  was  comfortably  olf,  that  much  he  knew  ; — the  old  native 
banker  at  Saharanpur,  proud  of  his  handsome  Europeanized  son,  had 
always  made  him  a  most  ample  allowance,  drawn  from  the  wealth  of 
Ormuz  and  of  Ind  ;— but  Harry  had  hardly  imagined  till  than  that  the 
Indian  doctor  could  afford  so  valuable  and  costly  a  present.  As  -a 
matter  of  fact,  Mohammad  Ali  could  not  afford  it  ;  he  had  stretched  a 
point  for  this  special  occasion,  and  wasted  a  whole  month's  income  on 
a  fitting  gift  for  Olwen's  wedding.  Harry  looked  at  the  costly  oriental 
things  with  a  softening  heart.  On  one's  wedding  day,  one  sees  the 
world  through  rose-coloured  spectacles. 

"After  all,"  he  said  to  himself  gaily,  *' Ali'sa  good  fellow,  and  a 
threat  deal  fonder  of  me  than  I  ever  thought,  or  he  wouldn't  have 
bought  me  such  a  beautiful  present.  Of  late,  I've  been  inclined  to 
fancy  sometimes  he  wasn't  quite  so  friendly  and  pleasant  as  he  used  to 
be.  I  almost  suspected  him,  indeed,  of  suspecting  me  1  Pooh  1  What 
nonsense.  I  laid  my  plans  too  deep  for  that.  Conscience  makes 
cowards  of  us  all,  I  suppose  ;  though  not,  thank  goodness,  of  me,  at 
any  rate.  Pretty  reflections  tb"=e  for  a  man  at  his  wedding  I  It's  a 
comfort  to  know  1  was  mistakt-  after  all,  and  that  All's  really  the  same 
good  fellow  and  good  frieiid  as  ever. 

He  never  even  thought  of  it  as  a  present  to  Olwen.  So  much  do  we  all 
read  things  from  our  own  side  alone.  So  much  does  every  one  of  us 
misinterpret  the  springs  of  action  in  the  motives  of  others. 

Another  very  pretty  wedding  present  of  Olwen's  was  a  little  water- 
eoloor  af  a  r*orniBh  garden,  with  a  girl's  light  figure  standing  out  in  the 


THE  devil's  die.  87 

foreground,  between  clambering  sprays  of  clematis  and  jftfllfiilie  ;  and 
visitors  from  a  distance  whispered  to  one  another,  *'  It's  her  own  ideal 
portrait,  you  know,  by  Mr.  Royle,  the  well-known  artist,  who  was  Dr. 
Chichele's  best  man,  and  Tvhorn  he  and  the  Hindoo  gentleman,  with  the 
Mahommedan  name,  saved,  you  remember,  from  the  wreck  of  that 
famous  cholera  ship  last  autumn.  You  must  have  read  all  about  it  at 
the  time  in  the  papers. 

But  during  the  course  of  the  wedding  breakfast,  when  Harry 
Chichele's  health  was  proposed  in  a  most  eulogistic  speech,  the  Hindoo 
gentleman,  with  the  Mahommedan  name,  felt  a  curious  shudder  come 
creeping  over  nim,  and  a  cold  tremour  down  the  spinal  cord  overtake 
him  with  a  rush,  at  a  painful  thought  that  just  then  flashed  unex- 
pectedly across  his  mental  horizon.  For  all  of  a  sudden,  in  the  midst 
of  all  that  din,  bustle,  and  gaiety,  as  everybody  was  talking  and  think- 
ing about  Harry  Chichele,  and  what  a  wonderfully  clever  fellow  he  had 
proved  himself,  and  what  important  medical  discoveries  ho  had  made, 
and  what  a  great  and  famous  man  he  was  and  would  be,  that  old  sus- 
picion about  the  cause  of  Sarah  Wilcox's  death  recurred  with  startling 
vividness,  as  if  by  direct  external  suggestion,  to  Mohammad  Ali's  pre- 
occupied mind  ;  and  like  a  flash  of  lightning  it  came  over  him  to  think 
that  on  that  fatal  night  ho  had  never  felt  Harry  Chichele's  other  hand — 
the  hand  he  had  kept  so  long  concealed  in  his  pocket  and  laid  at  last 
upon  the  dying  woman.  And  then,  with  the  instantaneous  and  ^ 
instinctive  conviction  of  his  Arab  nature,  the  hideous  truth  came 
clearly  home  to  him  in  a  burst  of  intuitive  certainty,  that,  in  spite  of 
all  these  fair  speeches  and  praises,  they  were  all  assembled  there  that 
day  to  see  Olwen  Tregellas  married  to  a  murderer. 

It  was  too  late  now  to  think  any  more  of  it.  She  was  married  to 
him  at  last — irrevocably  married  to  him.  The  moment  for  action  waa 
lono  gone  past ;  there  was  only  time  in  future  for  regret  and  repentance. 
For  Olwen 's  sake,  he  must  never  again  breathe  his  suspicions  to  any 
man.     For  Olwen's  sake,  he  must  still  try  to  believe  in  her  husband. 

The  champagne  bubbled  and  beaded  merrily  in  his  glass.  Every- 
body was  smiling  and  bowing  and  nodding.  The  word  went  round, 
*' The  Bridegroom's  Health."  All  the  guests  raised  their  glasses  and 
drank.  Mohammad  Ali  raised  his  with  the  rest.  When  they  set  them 
down  again,  there  was  one  glass  untasted  among  them.  "  You  haven't 
drunk  happiness  to  the  bridegroom,"  the  lady  beside  him  murmured 
lotv  with  a  smile.  Ali  answered  her  with  an  evasive  prevarication. 
**  I'm  a  Moslem,"  he  said,  "  and  you  know  the  Koran  forbids  the  faith- 
ful to  taste  of  wine."  It  was  the  first  time  since  he  came  to  England 
he  had  ever  pleaded  Islam  as  an  excuse  for  abstemiousness. 

And  with  that  double  evil  augury,  Olwen  Chichele's  married  life 
beguk 


88  TUB  DflYUi'S  DIB 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

The  first  twelve  months  of  01  wen  Chichele's  married  life  passed 
quietlj'  and  happily  enoup;h.  Of  course  she  and  Harry  did  not  live 
entirely  in  an  earthly  paradise.  Ante-nuptial  expectations  of  a  per- 
petual honeymoon  break  down  on  trial  before  the  stern  realities  of 
mundane  house-keeping.  There  are  no  "books  to  pay"  in  the  forecast 
of  the  betrothed.  Still,  when  judged  by  the  more  modest  and  realistic 
standard  of  the  actually  married,  the  two  young  people  jogged  along 
very  happily  together  in  their  matrimonial  harness.  If  their  wedded 
life  was  not  at  all  times  quite  as  ecstatically  blissful  as  they  had  imag- 
ined it  would  be  in  the  days  when  they  wandered  side  by  side,  with 
thrilling  hearts,  among  the  gorse  and  heather  at  dear  old  Polperran,  at 
least  they  were  as  averagely  comfortable  and  sympathetic  with  one 
another  as  any  ordinary  husband  and  wife  can  ever  expect  in  this  work- 
a-day  world  of  ouvs.  Harry  was  really  and  truly  fond  and  proud  of  his 
sweet  little  wife  ;  and  when  he  took  her  out  to  dinner  at  great  houses 
in  London,  and  heard  the  oft- whispered  inquiry,  "Who's  that  awfully 
pretty  dark  girl  in  the  white  dress  over  yonder?"  his  bosom  swelled 
within  him  with  the  pride  of  possession  at  the  usual  flattering  answer, 
"  1'hat's  Mrs.  Chichele,  wife  of  the  clever  doctor  fellow  who  invented 
germs,  and  so  forth,  don't  you  know ;  her  husband's  professor  of  some° 
thing-or-other  unpronounceable  at  University  College." 

Olwen,  too,  for  her  part,  was  exceedingly  happy.  Harry  seemed 
kindness  and  goodness  itself  to  her;  and  although,  of  course,  like  most 
other  women,  she  had  to  come  down  in  time  off  that  earlier  pedestal  of 
the  engaged  angel  to  walk  the  solid  earth,  in  due  course,  a  prosaic 
married  woman  of  flesh  and  blood,  much  preoccupied  with  weighty 
questions  of  the  weekly  bills  or  the  new  housemaid's  Sunday  out 
arrangements,  she,  nevertheless,  found  him  always  as  attentive  and 
demonstrative  as  a  mere  husband  can  ever,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be 
expected  to  show  himself.  But  every  woman  is  potentially  a  duchess. 
Men  sometimes  rise  to  the  occasion ;  women  always  do ;  and  Olweu  bore 
her  blushing  honours  lightly  on  her — as  lightly  as  if  she  had  been 
accustomed  all  her  life  long  to  give  her  arm  to  a  real  live  philosopher 
as  the  servants  announced  "  Dinner's  ready,  mum,"  and  to  discuss  the 
Absolute  and  Unknowable  between  the  courses  with  an  eminent  psycho- 
logist and  a  distinguished  member  of  the  French  Academy. 

And  the  germs  1  Well,  the  germs  continued  to  survive,  and  to  per- 
vade society  much  the  same  as  ever.  Epidemic  diseases  were  not  yet 
altogether  stamped  out,  it  is  true,  and  diphtheria  and  scarlatina  still 
floated  invisible  upon  the  summer  breeze  very  much  as  they  had  done 
since  the  beginning  of  time,  before  the  woman  Wilcox  had  been  oflered 
up  on  the  altar  of  humanity  as  a  vicarioua  sacrifice  to  the  all-  coo<iu«nuf 


THB  DBYIL'b  DIB.  69 

germ  for  the  remainder  of  her  species.  Still,  the  theory — the  theory 
was  proved,  and  that,  after  all,  is  the  great  thing.  In  time,  you  know, 
we  shall  proceed  to  practice. 

This  is  generally  the  way  with  all  great  medical  discoveries.  They 
go  up  like  a  rocket  and  come  down  like  a  stick.  First,  they  are  cock- 
sure to  revolutionize  science.  Next — though  very  important  within  a 
certain  limited  range  of  diseases,  don't  you  know — they  are  not  quite 
so  universally  valuable  as  some  people  were  rash  enough  to  imagine  at 
the  first  outset.  Last  of  all,  they  are  quietly  forgotten,  and  relegated 
without  one  word  of  recantation  to  the  infinite  limbo  of  exploded  rem- 
edies. In  this  natural  life-history  of  a  medical  theory,  Harry  Chichele's 
great  and  successful  germ  doctrine  was  rapidly  reaching  the  second 
stage  of  modified  appreciation. 

Nevertheless,  the  professorship  still  remained  intact,  a  very  tangible 
and  visible  monument  of  the  brilliant  hopes  at  first  aroused  by  the  pro- 
mulgation of  "  the  Chichele  hypothesis."  Eight  hundred  a  year,  pay- 
able quarterly,  and  a  chair  in  University  College,  London,  no  doubt 
consoles  a  man  for  a  certain  amount  of  disappointed  forecasts  and  less- 
ened ideals  for  the  future  of  humanity. 

The  Chicheles  had  taken  a  comfortable  house,  not  beyond  their 
means,  at  Happy  Hampstead.  Harry's  little  patrimony — his  final 
share  of  Begum  Johanna's  ill-gotten  wealth — helped  to  eke  out  the 
income  from  the  chair ,  and  between  the  two  they  lived  in  a  way  which 
to  Olwen  seemed  almost  culpably  luxurious,  and  which  even  Harry, 
with  his  more  expensive  metropolitan  tastes,  considered  extremely 
gentlemanly,  convenient,  and  satisfactory. 

In  the  new  household  at  Queen  Anne's  Road,  Hampstead,  little  Liz- 
beth  formed  a  conspicuous  couip(jnent  element.  When  Harry  Chichele 
married — a  step  which  little  Lizbeth  already  regarded  with  some  dis- 
favour, as  introducing  an  unknown  fac  tor  into  the  family  of  which  she 
now  considered  herself  an  aliquot  part— Li/both  had  quietly  taken  it 
for  granted  that  she  would  miorate,  as  a  matter  of  course,  like  the 
Begum  and  the  Emir,  Harry's  Persian  cat,  to  the  new  home  as  soon  aa 
it  was  established.  For  little  Lizbeth  was  now  a  fixture,  identifying 
herself  completely  with  Harry  Chichele,  and  utterly  forgetful  not  only 
of  Bill  but  also  even  of  her  dead  mother.  Indeed,  Lizbeth's  afibctiona 
were  curiously  strange  and  dog-like  in  their  cluaracter.  She  didn't 
seem  capable  of  recognizing  more  than  one  special  friend  at  a  time,  aa 
a  dog  has  always  only  one  real  master.  And  now  that  Sal  was  dead 
and  gone,  Lizbeth  accommodated  herself  with  canine  fickleness  and 
canine  fidelity  to  the  whims  and  fancies  of  her  new  owner.  Her  posi- 
tion in  the  household  was  somewhat  undefined.  She  was  not  cook,  or 
parlourtnaid,  or  scullery-girl,  or  housemaid.  She  fulfilled  more  or  less 
the  nondescript  functions  usually  performed  by  a  boy  about  the  place ; 
but  she  regarded  herself,  for  her  own  part,  strictly  in  the  light  of 
Harry  Chichele's  personal  slave  and  chattel.  Olwen,  she  tolerated  in  a 
general  vague  and  indefinite  way,  as  a  dog  tolerates  his  master's  family 
and  his  master's  friends ;  but  Harry  Chichele  she  loved  and  obeyed, 
watching  closely  for  his  merest  word  or  nodi  and  ready  always  when* 


90  THB  devil's  Dia. 

ever  he  wanted  her,  with  her  keen  little  eye  answering  afc  once  to  his 
merest  passing  idea  or  fancy.  If  Harry  went  out,  it  was  Lizbeth  who 
handed  him  his  stick  or  his  umbrella,  and  brushed  his  hat,  and  took  his 
last  orders,  and  closed  the  door  lightly  behind  him.  If  Harry  came  in, 
it  was  Lizbeth  who  recognized  his  ring  at  the  bell;  Lizbeth  ho  lay  in 
waiting  to  open  for  him  at  once ;  Lizbeth  who  set  his  slipj^  s  by  the 
fire,  and  brought  him  the  letters  or  the  evening  paper.  At  first  she 
had  considered  Harry  Chichele  mainly  as  the  person  who  had  been 
kind  to  mother  when  mother  was  dying.  Now  that  feeling  had  gradu- 
ally merged  into  another — a  more  perscmal  and  possessive  one  ;  and  it 
was  for  his  own  sake,  as  her  master  and  owner,  that  Lizbeth  clung  to 
the  young  doctor,  with  the  intense  clinging  of  her  strangely  perverted 
savage  little  nature. 

Mohammad  Ali  also  lived  not  far  away.  He,  too,  dogged  his  lady 
like  a  faithful  spaniel.  True  to  his  determination  to  watch  well  over 
Olwen's  happiness,  come  what  might,  he  had  taken  rooms  at  a  house 
hard  by  in  Queen  Anne's  Road,  and  pretended  to  practice  in  a  half- 
amateur  way  among  the  comparatively  large  Indian  and  Mohammedan 
connection  which  lives  and  shivers  in  modern  London.  But  the  prac- 
tice, after  all,  was  mostly  a  transparent  pretence  for  all  that.  The 
greater  part  of  Mohammad  All's  time  he  really  spent  in  Harry  Chichele's 
experimental  laboratory,  where  he  worked  away  contentedly  at  tihe 
germs  and  infusions,  amply  satisfied  if,  once  in  a  while,  it  gave  him  a 
stray  chance  of  seeing  Olwen,  and  observing  the  course  of  her  current 
relations  with  her  husband.  Not  a  few  of  the  delicate  and  minute 
experiments  which  gained  Harry  Chichele  so  much  kudos  when 
embodied  in  those  striking  and  original  papers  of  his  at  the  Royal 
Society  were  really  due,  as  intimate  friends  knew,  in  great  part  to  the 
handy  and  careful  manipulation  of  the  patient,  self -forgetful  Moham- 
medan doctor.  But  Ali,  indeed,  cared  less  than  nothing  for  fame  ;  he 
was  glad  to  help  Harry  to  the  utmost  of  his  power  for  love  of  the  occu- 
pation and  for  love  of  Olwen.  If  Harry  gained  credit  for  anything  his 
Indian  friend  had  done,  why  Olwen  was  pleased  at  it;  and  if  Olwen 
was  pleased  at  it,  Mohammad  Ali  had  more  than  his  due  share  of 
reward  and  repayment  for  all  his  passing  toil  and  trouble.  Kismet, 
kismet.     He  lived  for  Olwen. 

The  first  Christmas  after  Olwen  was  married  Ivan  Royle  took  up  hia 
quarters  for  a  time  at  an  hotel  at  Cannes.  It  was  a  cold  December  in 
England — colder  than  even  the  English  want — and  there  was  skating 
on  the  Serpentine  before  Christmas  day.  Such  a  winter  is  too  much 
altogether  for  our  Indian  brother.  The  cold  nipped  up  Mohammad 
Ali.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  his  lungs  getting  out  of  order, 
and  judged  it  prudent  to  strike  south  at  once,  on  a  visit  to  Royle  on 
the  Mediterranean.  So  he  moved  away  early  in  the  year,  and  pitched 
hifl  tent,  like  his  Semitic  forefathers,  on  the  sunny  shores  of  the  inland 
sea. 

A  week  later,  as  Harry  Chichele  sat  at  breakfast  one  morning 
grumbling  a  little  at  a  passing  sore  throat,  and  poring  over  an  enthusi- 
astio  and  descriptive  letter  from  his  Indian  friend,  he  laid  dowa  hia 


TBI  DITIL*8   DII.  ^1 

coffee  with  an  air  of  determination,  and,  looking  up  from  the  page  he 
was  reading,  cried  abruptly,  **  I  say,  Olwen,  let's  start  to-night  for 
Cannes  and  sunshine." 

Olwen's  colour  heightened  somewhat.  She  hardly  liked  this  hastj 
resolve.  Ivan  Royle  was  at  Cannes  ;  and  she  liked  Ivan  Royle  so  verj 
much  that  on  the  whole  she  would  rather  have  avoided  him.  **  That's 
Tery  sudden,  Harry,"  she  answered,  with  a  conscious  flush.  "  Why  go 
■o  hurriedly  ?    Don't  you  think  you'd  better  wait  and  turn  it  over  ? ' 

But  Harry,  on  his  side,  rather  preferred  precipitate  action.  Ha 
hated  indecision  and  shilly-shallying  of  every  sort.  When  all  the  ele- 
ments of  a  problem  are  once  fairly  set  before  you,  it's  womanish  to 
hesitate  and  debate  and  haggle  over  detail.  A  philosopher  sees  at  a 
glance  where  the  indications  point,  and  makes  up  his  mind  at  once  and 
irrevocably.  "  Why  no,"  he  replied,  *'I  don't  see  it.  Why  shouldn't 
we  start  ofifhand  to-night  ?  Everything  goes  for  it  straight  as  a  needle. 
The  south 's  the  place  for  a  Christmas  holiday.  Lectures  don't  begin 
for  another  three  weeks.  Why  muddle  and  mug  in  foggy,  muggy, 
muddy  London,  when  one  can  breathe  pure  air  and  see  bright  sunshine 
and  hear  birds  sing  on  the  Riviera  ?  Listen  here  to  what  Mohammad 
Ali  says,  little  woman.  *  Blue  skies,  green  grass,  purple  sea,  and  per- 
fect basketsful  of  Banksia  roses  !  The  hotel  garden's  an  exquisite 
picture — reminds  me  of  Polperran  in  August  weather,  except  that 
even  at  Polperran  we  didn't  have  huge  agaves  and  aloes  towering  with 
their  crowns  of  golden  blossom  to  the  cloudless  sky,  or  date-palms 
recalling  the  valley  of  the  Jumna.  There  are  attractions,  too,  in  the 
way  of  society  ;  friends  of  Royle's  who  are  well  worth  knowing.  Why 
don't  you  come,  and  bring  Mrs.  Chichele  ?  She  had  a  nasty  cough,  I 
fancy,  when  1  left  London,' — All's  quite  right,  Olwen,  you  have  a 
cough  ;  I've  noticed  it  myself  sometimes  in  the  morning  ;  how  awfully 
observant  these  Indian  fellows  are,  to  be  sure — '  and  a  week  or  two  in 
this  delicious  summer-like  aii  would  set  her  up  thoroughly  and  bring 
the  Cornish  roses  back  into  her  cheeks  again.'  Upon  my  word,  Olwen, 
All's  an  awfully  kind  and  thoughtful  fellow.  I  believe  he's  right,  after 
all.  A  week  or  two  in  the  south  would  do  you  worlds  of  good.  There's 
nothing  I  love  like  an  unexpected  trip.  Why,  it  was  at  ten  minutes* 
notice,  you  know,  that  I  went  to  Polperran.  I  met  a  friend  in  the 
Strand,  and  I  said  to  him,  *  I'm  going  down  to  Cornwall  to  look  for 
adders.  Where  shall  I  find  'em  ? '  And  he  said,  *  At  Polperran.'  So 
I  went  right  off  on  his  recommendation,  and  I  found  you  there  instead 
of  an  adder — so  there's  a  precedent  for  you,  if  you  like,  darling."  And 
he  leant  across  and  kissed  her  hand  tenderly. 

*'  You  mustn't  repeat  the  performance  at  Cannes,  Harry,"  his  pretty 
little  wife  replied,  smiling.  "  I  want  you  all  for  mycelf  now.  You 
most  find  nobody  to  take  my  place  there.  But  how  on  earth  shall  we 
ever  get  the  packing  done  ?  When  do  you  mean  to  leave  7  There's 
positively  no  time  for  it." 

"  Oh,  nothing  easier,"  Harry  cried  oflfhand,  already  deep  in  the  study 
of  Bradshaw,  which  he  had  fetched,  as  she  spoke,  from  the  drawer  in 
Uie  sideboard.     **  Here  you  aro :  Leave  Charing  Cross,  9.5  p.m. ; 


92  THl  DKyiL'8  DII. 

arrive  Paris,  6.5o  morning.  That's  our  train.  Bundle  a  few  things 
into  a  portmanteau  for  me  ;  take  your  own  best  bib  and  tucker,  a  din- 
ner dress  or  two,  and  a  bonnet  for  yourself  ;  wire  across  to  All  to 
secure  us  rooms  at  the  hotel  at  Cannes  ;  stop  a  couple  of  nights  on  blie 
way  south  ;  and  there  you  are,  as  plain  as  a  pikestafP.  Run  upstairs 
after  breakfast,  darling,  and  get  ready  at  once.  No  need  to  make  a 
mountain  out  of  a  molehill." 

When  Harry  said  a  thing  he  generally  meant  it.  So  they  packed 
hurriedly,  and  took  the  night  mail  that  very  evening  for  Paris.  Little 
Lizbeth  stood  at  the  door  to  see  them  off,  very  particular  about  Harry's 
comforter,  and  specially  anxious  that  he  should  have  a  foot- warmer  to- 
keep  his  throat  from  turning  worse.  As  the  cab  drove  away  Lizbeth 
fairly  burst  out  crying.  **'E's  goin'  right  across  the  sea,"  she  said, 
*'an'  perhaps  'e  won't  never  come  back  again." 

At  the  bookstall  at  Charing  Cross  Harry  paused  to  buy  himself  a 
book  for  reading  on  the  journey.  Olwen  had  chosen  her  own  already 
— a  shilling  dreadful — the  last  thing  published.  Harry  glanced  about 
among  the  paper  covers  for  something  or  other  a  little  more  to  his 
mind.  After  conning  over  the  titles  of  three  or  four,  he  found,  at  last, 
a  volume  to  suit  him. 
'  **  What  have  you  got  t "  Olwen  asked,  as  he  turned  to  pay  for  it. 

**  Oh,  just  Seeta  Mayne's  last.  You've  seen  it  reviewed.  They  say 
it's  superb.     '  The  Price  of  Wisdom.' '' 

**  Always  that  woman  !  1  never  did  care  for  Seeta  Mayne,"  Olwen 
rejoined,  half  pettishly.  *'  She  seems  to  me  so  strained,  so  high-flown, 
so  quixotic,  so  unnatural.  Her  ideas  of  life  are  all  impossibly  high. 
She  wants  to  live  in  a  Utopian  world  of  magnificent  abstractions.  She 
pi^vades  infinity  too  much  for  me.  I  prefer  people  who  confine  their 
attention,  as  a  rule,  to  the  solar  system  and  their  own  planet." 

"Ah,  that's  because  you  don't  care  for  pure  romance,"  Harry 
answered  sententiously,  "  Of  course  you  don't  see  as  Seeta  Mayne 
does.  For  her,  all  earth  and  air  and  sky  and  ocean  are  purpled  over 
with  'the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land.'  She  looks  at  every- 
thing with  the  eye  of  a  bom  poet.  You  can't  expect,  you  know,  to 
read  the  world  as  a  woman  like  Seeta  Mayne  reads  it." 

A  sharp  little  knife  ran  unseen,  as  he  spoke,  through  Olwen  Chi- 
chele's  tender  heart.  In  a  moment,  a  memory  had  broken  suddenly 
over  her.  Twelve  months  ago  ;  eighteen  months  ago  !  A  picture  rose 
before  her  dim  eyes  of  how  she  and  Harry  had  wandered  alone  among 
the  Cornish  heather,  and  how  she  had  spoken  like  things  of  Seeta 
Mayne,  and  how  very  differently  he  had  then  answered  her.  But  that 
was  eighteen  months  since  1  Every  wife  on  earth  has  felt  that  pang, 
some  rightly  and  some  wrongfully.  Olwen  Chichele  felt  it  with  bitter 
keenness  then,  and  treasured  it  up,  as  women  will  treasure  up  theil 
dearest  wounds,  in  a  special  chamber  of  her  soft  small  bosom. 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

Thst  htdke  the  journey  at  Paris  and  Marseilles,  leaving  onlj  the 
■hort  and  beautiful  bit  along  the  Mediterranean  as  a  sort  of  bonne  bouche 
for  the  third  morning.  It  is  a  lovely  ride,  that  sun-smitten  strip  of 
rocky  coast,  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea,  from  Marseilles  to 
To\|lon  ;  then  en  through  the  glorious  hills  and  dales  of  the  Maures  ■ 
inland  to  Fr6jus  ;  and  finally  among  the  magnificent  red  prophyry 
peaks  of  the  ramping  Esterel  to  Cannes  itself,  where  they  were  to  end 
for  the  time  their  hasty  journey.  Olwen,  who  had  never  been  in  the 
south  before,  was  in  ecstasies  of  enjoyment  at  every  turn.  There  was 
so  much  to  see  that  was  new  and  delightful — the  hoary  green  olives, 
with  their  gnarled  trunks  ;  the  vineyards  straggling  down  the  steep 
hiUsides  ;  the  orange  groves  nestling  with  their  broad  shade  beside  the 
dry  pebbly  beds  of  the  winter  torrents.  It  was  all  like  a  glorious  fairy 
taie  to  CMwen ;  not  even  in  her  own  beloved  Cornwall  had  she  ever 
seen  anything  one  half  so  beautiful. 

There  was  only  one  slight  drawback  to  her  pleasure  ;  sh*  couldn't 
get  Harry  fully  to  enjoy  it  with  her.  Time  after  time,  indeed,  at  her 
exclamations  of  surprise  and  delight  he  would  lay  down  his  book  on  the 
■eat  for  a  moment  and  step  by  her  side  i  o  the  open  window  to  look  out 
upon  some  glorious  sea-girth  headland,  jr  some  sunny  stretch  of  olive- 
olad  hillside,  terraced  with  endless  human  industry.  But  except  when 
■he  seized  him  bodily  by  the  arm  and  cried,  **  Oh,  Harry  1  Harry  ! 
You  must  look  I  It's  just  too  beautiful  I "  he  could  hardly  be  got  to 
leave  bis  reading ;  and  once,  at  the  very  moment  when  they  were  pass- 
ing a  lovelier  peacock-blue  bay  than  any  yet,  he  put  down  his  novel 
impatientiv  and  said  with  a  sigh,  "  Seeta  Mayne  is  really  a  most  wonder- 
ful writer. 

**0h,  bother  Seeta  Mayne  1"  Olwen  couldn't  help  exclaiming  in 
half  angry  tones.  **  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  exquisite  as  that, 
Harry?" 

**  It  M  lovely,"  Harry  answered,  far  too  grudgingly  to  satisfy  his  little 
wife's  enthusiastic  mood.  '*  What  melting  zones  of  colour  on  the  calm 
■ml  **  Seeta  Mayne  has  a  scene  placed  just  along  this  coast,  you 
laiow.  Her  debcription  of  the  country's  simply  wonderful.  You  never 
read  anything  like  it  Olwen  ;  you  must  look  at  it  yourself  when  we  get 
to  Cannes." 

Olwen  was  privately  piqued  in  her  own  mind  that  Harry  should  think 
■o  much  more  of  Seeta  Mayne's  second-hand  description  than  of  her 
own  delight  at  the  exquisite  scenery  which  was  just  then  unrolling 
itself  in  long  panorama  before  their  own  two  very  eyes.  It  was  really 
too  bad  of  him.  Slie  determined  not  to  call  his  attention  to  anything 
■caia,  however  ovel^  ihs  something  might  happen  to  b«,  just  to  pmusb 


94  TBI  devil's  DIB. 

him  for  his  indifference  ;  and  even  as  she  made  her  mind  up  to  tihat 
stem  inner  resolve,  a  grey  locky  crag,  with  clambering  grey  houses  * 
hanging  on  its  stairlike  flanks,  and  a  mouldering  grey  citadel  towering 
to  the  sky  on  its  topmost  platform,  broke  her  resolution  before  it  was 
even  well  formed  ;  and,  seizing  her  husband's  sleeve  once  more  in  her 
excitement,  she  cried  aloud  with  delight,  "  Oh,  Harry,  Harry,  do  look  1 
Here's  a  lovelier  bit  than  anything  at  all,  we've  seen,  so  far.  It  just 
appears  as  if  it  had  been  all  cut  out  of  a  single  solid  bllbk  of  greystone  ; 
ivB  so  precisely  like  throughout  in  shape  and  tone  and  shade  and  senti- 
ment 1     Isn't  it  just  wonderful  !  " 

**  Beautiful  1  beautiful !  "  Harry  answered,  unconcernedly,  and  be- 
took himself  once  more  to  that  horrid  novel  of  his. 

Ivan  Royle  and  Mohammad  Ali  had  told  them  by  postcard  to  the 
Louvre  at  Marseilles  (where  the  Chichele's  had  slept  the  night  before) 
that  they  would  walk  across  the  Esterel  by  the  footpath  from  Cannes 
and  pick  them  up  at  St.  Raphael  station.  But  when  the  train  stopped 
short  at  last  beside  a  glorious  bay,  looking  across  broad  belts  of  inter- 
vening sea  to  the  ragged  schistose  clififs  of  the  St.  Tropez  headlands, 
and  the  regulation  blue  notice  board  on  the  platform  showed  distinctly 
the  name  of  St.  Raphael,  no  English  artist  and  no  Inrlian  doctor  were 
anywhere  to  be  seen  among  the  scanty  passengers.  They  must  have 
changed  their  mind  or  missed  their  path,  Harry  imagined  :  so  the 
Chichele's  made  their  way  alone  to  Cannes,  without  further  disturbing 
themselves  as  to  the  non-appearance  of  their  promised  fellow-travellers. 

At  the  hotel  they  learned  from  the  proprietor  on  their  arrival  that  Ivan 
and  Ali  had  indeed  smarted  early  that  morning  to  meet  them  on  their 
way.  Monsieur's  fiiands  must  have  miscalculated  the  time  or  mis- 
taken the  road,  the  proprietor  fancied.  It  was  a  long  walk  from  Cannes 
to  St.  Raphael — a  long  walk  among  the  trackless  mountains.  Monsieur's 
friends  would  doubtless  return  by  the  next  train,  too  late  for  table 
d'hdte ;  they  were  often  belated. 

So  Harry  and  Olwen  washed  off  the  dust  of  travel  from  their  faces  at 
their  leisure,  and  descended  at  once  to  the  large  and  well-filled  salle-d- 
manger  for  dinner. 

They  remembered  that  dinner  for  ever  afterward.  Opposite  them  at 
the  table  sat  a  very  striking  and  handsome  woman,  who  at  once  attracted 
and  seemed  instinctively  to  rivet  Olwen's  closest  attention.  She  was 
tall  and  well-built,  with  faultlessly  clear-cut  and  regular  features  —  a 
oouutess  of  the  old  school,  Olwen  thought  to  herself,  looking  almost  as 
if  she  had  just  stepped  down  by  accident  from  some  canvas  of  Sir 
Joshua's,  or  Romney's,  or  Gainsborough's.  Her  forehead  was  remark- 
ably high  and  white  and  even,  and  she  wore  her  hair  brushed  back  front 
the  brow  on  every  side,  so  as  lo  show  to  the  full  its  very  unusual 
breadth  and  expansiveness.  Her  complexion  was  of  a  certain  inde- 
scribable clear  olive  tint,  not  in  the  least  dark,  yet  faintly  creamy,  like 
the  earliest  stage  of  coffee-coloured  laces.  Her  eyes  were  large,  grey, 
and  splendid.  When  they  lighted  upon  you  with  a  rapid  flash  thej 
seemed  to  pierce  you  through  and  through,  and  read  intuitively  your 
inmost  nature.     A  placid  smile  played  for  the  most  part  about  hei 


THB  DEVILlS  DIB.  95 

beautiful  mouth,  as  though  the  felt  herself  serenely  at  peace  with  man- 
kind and  with  the  universe  generally.  If  any  fault  could  have  been 
found  with  her  face,  it  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  that  her  lips  were 
perhaps  just  a  trifle  too  thin,  her  arched  eyebrows  just  a  trifle  too 
regular,  her  chiselled  features  just  a  trifle  too  cold,  her  delicate  small 
chin  just  a  trifle  too  strong  and  rigid  and  projecting.  ■  But  only  a 
cynical  critic  could  have  raised  these  hypercritical  objections  to  an 
exquisite  profile  ;  the  face  as  it  stood  was  an  eminently  beautiful  one, 
U'  the  high  calm  intellectual  style  of  feminine  beauty. 

As  Olweu  looked  at  her  again  and  again,  she  soon  observed  the 
stranger's  hands  were  almost  as  expressive  and  high-bom  looking  in 
their  own  way  as  even  her  features  ;  there  was  something  about  the 
long  and  graceful  tapering  Angers  that  irresistibly  reminded  one,  at  first 
sight,  of  Lely's  frail  and  exquisite  models.  Her  figure  was  perfect ; 
her  bust  well  moulded,  but  far  from  voluptuous  ;  her  arms  and  neck, 
just  faintly  suggested  rather  than  seen  through  her  simple  dark  grena- 
dine dinner  dress,  were  of  sculpturesque  roundness  and  grace  of  out- 
line. Even  her  costume  had  something  quaint  and  artistic  in  it  that 
seemed  to  smack  remotely  of  the  last  century  ;  her  lace  was  fine  and 
of  antique  make,  and  her  hair  was  arranged  with  some  dim  reminiscence 
of  the  style  of  arrangement  one  sees  in  portraits  of  the  time  of  Vanloo 
and  Boucher  and  Fragonard.  Everything  about  her  at  once  attracted 
and  repelled  Olwen  ;  the  little  Cornish  rosebud  felt  awed  and  abashed 
in  the  presence  of  this  majestic  full-blown  flower  of  queenly  woman- 
hood. 

The  countess,  as  Olwen  called  her  at  once  in  her  own  mind  with 
girlish  simplicity,  was  the  first  to  speak.  Olwen  herself  would  never 
have  ventured  upon  taking  such  a  liberty  with  so  great  a  lady.  **  You're 
new  arrivals,"  she  said,  with  a  royal  smile,  "just  come  to-day  1  We 
were  expecting  friends  from  England  ourselves  by  the  same  train,  but 
they  haven't  turned  up,  I  see.  You've  had  a  lovely  journey,  I  should 
think,  along  our  beautiful  coast  in  this  glorious  sunny  weather."  She 
spoke  somehow  with  an  expansive  wave,  as  if  the  coast  belonged  to  her- 
self personally,  and  as  if  she  had  specially  arranged  with  the  authorities 
of  the  atmosphere  for  the  supply  of  glorious  weather  at  will,  to  her 
private  order. 

Olwen  flushed  s«rith  pleasure  at  her  friendly  notice,  so  grand  and 
beautiful  and  condescending  was  she.  "  Yes,  indeed,"  she  answered, 
**  it  was  just  too  lovely  ;  I  never  in  my  life  saw  anything  to  equal  it." 

The  countess  flooded  her  with  the  light  of  her  eyes.  **  I'm  glad  you 
like  our  scenery,"  she  said  simply.  But  she  said  it  with  the  air  of  one 
whose  own  handiwork  is  being  duly  appreciated. 

"  Do  you  live  here  always,  then  ? "  Olwen  ventured  to  ask,  in  some- 
what trembling  accents. 

"  Always,  in  winter.  In  Switzerland  for  half  the  year,  and  here  for 
the  other  half.  I'm  a  confirmed  sun  worshipper,  faithful  still  to  the 
oldest  and  most  poetical  of  human  creeds.  I  hate  the  mists  and  foge 
and  drizzles  of  London.  I  love  not  your  fogs,  your  bogs,  and  your 
frogn      And,  besides,  I  fly  hither  from  English  despotism. 


96  THX  devil's  DVL 

'*  From  English  v>hat  ?  "  Harry  asked,  looking  up  in  surprise  wiCh  ft 
hasty  glance  from  his  soup-plate. 

**  From  English  despotism,"  the  countess  repeated  in  the  same  sweet 
measured  tones  as  before,  transfixing  him  in  turn  with  '^hose  clear  grey 
eyes  of  hers.  "  You  have  a  eovereign  in  England,  an  inexorable  poten- 
tate, whom  I  try  to  avoid  for  one  half  at  least  of  every  twelve-month. 
Of  late,  I'vfc  avoided  her  altogether.  No  other  despotism  existing  on 
earth  can  be  so  watchful  or  so  exacting  as  that  English  sovereign  of 
yours.  A  Russian  czar  may  dictate  to  his  subjects  their  political  creed 
and  their  religious  opinions.  An  oriental  despot  may  order  about  his 
sultanas  and  his  Circassian  slaves  ;  may  tax  his  people's  salt  and  ghee 
and  marriages ;  but  he  doesn't  interfere  in  every  petty  action  of  his 
lieges  in  their  daily  life,  or  poke  his  nose  in  at  the  windows  of  their 
huts  at  the  moment  when  they're  engaged  upon  the  domestic  dinner. 
Now,  your  English  potentate  does  all  this  ;  her  Argus  eyes  are  erer 
upon  you  ;  her  spies  are  watching  you  all  day  long  ;  nothing  is  too 
small  or  too  private  for  her  notice  ;  nothing  is  too  sacred  for  her  open 
criticism  and  her  public  animadversion."  The  countess  paused  and 
looked  hard  at  Harry.  Olwen  felt  herself  called  upon  to  answer  some- 
thing. 

**  And  her  name  ?  "  she  said,  with  some  little  wonderment. 

**  Is  Mrs.  Grundy,"  the  countess  retorted  sharply.  "  You  English, 
in  solemn  conclave  assembled,  fall  down  ^nd  worship  Mrs.  Grundy. 
All  other  despotisms  are  feared  and  hated  ;  but  Mrs.  Grundy  is  faith- 
fully served  on  every  side  by  willing  victims.  Queen  and  Parliament 
would  be  powerless  to  touch  the  minute  matters  of  every-day 
existence  which  Mrs.  Grundy  regulates  for  you  all  with  a  rod  of 
iron.  No  legislative  enactment  could  ever  compel  you  yourself,  for 
instance,  to  wear  clothes  which  you  didn'o  like,  or  to  buy  a  bonnet 
which  you  didn't  think  '  so  very  becoming.'  Mrs.  Grundy  issues  her 
sumptuary  edict,  and  forthwith  you  array  yourself  in  an  inflated  balloon, 
or  gird  yourself  round  with  iron  cage- work,  or  drape  yourself  in  skirts 
that  cling  about  your  limbs  like  a  wet  bathing  dress.  Your  husband 
would  like  to  wear  a  soft  felt  hat  instead  of  the  orthodox  shining  . 
chimney-pot  in  the  streets  of  London — but  what  would  Mrs.  Grundy 
say  ?  The  thing's  impossible.  The  eyes  of  England  and  of  the  Grundy* 
are  upon  you.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  ride  home  to-day  on  top  of  the 
omnibus  ;  but  Mrs.  Grundy  walks,  ten  thousand  strong.,  down  Regent- 
street,  the  Strand,  and  Piccadilly  ;  and  in  deference  to  her  understood 
opinions,  you  take  a  cab  instead  and  go  home  half-a-crown  the  poorer. 
For  my  part,  I  hate  Mrs.  Grundy.  She  drives  me  an  exile  from  my 
own  land.  I  prefer  to  escape  her  by  spending  the  winter  here  on  the 
Riviera,  and  flying  for  the  summer  to  the  breezy  heights  of  free 
Switzerland." 

*•  I  wonder  who  Mrs.  Gnindy  is  ? "     Olwen  murmured,  inquiringly. 

*'  Don't  you  know  ? "  the  countess  cried,  with  an  accent  of  surprise. 
I  thought  everybody  knew  that !  Why,  she's  just  the  farmer's  wife  in 
the  old  play  of  *  Speed  the  plough  ' — nothing  but  the  next-door  farmer's 
wife — no  a.3se,  I  aMure  you  ;  the  persouifllwJiou  aod  embodiment  <»l 


Ttti  divil'i  dik.  9t 

petty  everyday  female  tyranny.  This  ceremonial  government,  which 
sums  itself  up  in  Mrs.  Grundy's  name,  is  really  and  truly  a  petticoat 
government,  a  system  of  life  devised,  maintained,  enforced,  and  carried 
out  solely  by  women.  Men  go  to  Parliament  and  make  the  laws.  What 
does  that  matter  ?  Women  stop  at  home  and  constitute  collectively 
that  grand  impersonal  absolute  despotism  which  sums  itself  up  as  Mrs. 
Grundy.  There  are  three  kinds  of  government  in  the  world,  invented 
respectively  by  men,  by  priests,  and  by  women.  Political  government 
— the  masculine  form  —hurts  nobody ;  after  all,  it  has  no  effect. 
Ecclesiastical  government — the  epicene  form — hurts  us  somewhat ;  but 
we've  lived  it  down,  and  we  can,  all  of  us,  escape  it  if  we  choose  now- 
adays. Ceremonial  government— the  feminine  form — presses  upon  us 
every  day  of  our  lives,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  with  all  the  petty 
minute  persistence  and  persecution  of  women.  It  ia  woman's  invention, 
and  it  bears  upon  its  face  the  unmistakable  mint  mark  of  feminine  in- 
tolerance." 

*'  You're  hard  upon  women,"  Olwen  said  with  a  smile.  **  For  mj 
part,  I  like  my  own  sex." 

"  I  don't,"  the  countess  responded  frankly.  **  Man  is  really  worth 
a  hundred  thousand  of  us.  If  you  want  breadth  of  view,  go  to  man  for 
it.  If  yon  want  wide  sympathy,  go  to  man  for  it.  If  you  want  genial- 
ity, toleration,  expansiveness,  justice,  go  to  man  for  them.  But  if  you 
prefer  narrow-mindedness,  intolerance,  petty  criticism,  restricted  lyra- 
pathies,  harsh  injustice,  positive  cruelty,  go  to  woman  for  them  ;  gu  to 
woman,  and  verily  I  say  unto  you,  you  will  not  be  disappointed." 

She  poised  an  olive  on  the  end  of  a  dessert  fork  as  she  spoke,  and 
glanced  up  at  Harry  for  approbation. 

''Most  women  would  be  afraid  to  admit  it,"  Harry  replied  compla- 
cently. He  liked  to  be  included  in  the  ranks  of  a  sex  which  possessed 
BO  many  delightful  characteristics. 

**  Most  women,  true  ;  but  I  am  not  most  women.  I  am  myself,  and 
I  have  the  courage  of  my  convictions,"  the  oountess  answered  with  a 
delicious  smile.  For  the  rest  of  dinner  time  she  addressed  her  remarks 
mainly  to  Harry,  and  Olwen  was  glad  of  it.  Such  conversation  she  had 
never  heard  before.  It  subdued  and  annihilated  her.  The  countess 
flowed  on  like  a  majestic  river.  Her  speech  never  faltered  or  hesitated 
for  a  moment.  It  came  out  always  in  an  even  stream  with  all  the 
regular  ease  and  balanced  rhythm  of  a  practised  orator's. 

As  they  finished  their  last  raisins  and  oranges,  the  countess  roc« 
with  stately  complacency.  **  Shall  we  go  into  the  drawing-room  ?  "she 
said  to  Olwen.  sweeping  up  her  train  with  her  hand  as  she  spoke. 
Olwen,  afraid  of  her  and  half-repelled  still,  attempted  to  follow.  The 
countess  motioned  her  imperiously  in  front  with  a  regal  wave  of  her 
beautiful  hand.  "  Married  ladies  first,"  she  said  ;  *'  Mrs.  Grundy  wills 
it."  Olwen  obeyed,  but  half  mistrusted  herself  even  for  obeying.  Sha 
must  be  a  countess  in  her  own  right  then,  Olwen  thought  to  herself  ; 
she  had  yielded  precedence  to  a  doctor's  wife  on  the  ground  of  being 
a  single  woman. 

They  had  scarcely  seated  themselves  in  the  comfortable  easy  ohain 

(7) 


98  THB   pBTIL*8  DIE. 

by  a  small  table  in  a  retired  corner,  the  countess  just  toying  latily  with 
her  LouIb  Quinze  fan,  and  01  wen,  for  the  very  first  time  in  her  whole 
life,  feeling  dimly  conscious  of  a  certain  awkward  doubt  as  to  how  to 
manage  the  conduct  of  her  hands,  when  the  big  door  from  the  main 
corridor  opened  suddenly,  and  in  walked  Ivan  Royle  and  Mohammad 
All. 

Ivan  advanced  towards  them  all  at  once,  with  his  frank  smile  and 
hearty  welcome.  "How  well  you're  looking,  Chichele,"  he  cried, 
delighted.  *'  And  Mrs.  Chichele,  too,  as  fresh  and  bright  and  light 
as  ever.  This  is  just  jolly.  We're  so  enchanted  to  see  you.  Ali  and 
and  I  barely  missed  the  train  at  St.  Raphael  by  thirty  seconds.  Lost 
our  way  among  the  hills,  and  couldn't  get  right  again.  However,  it 
doesn't  matter,  I  see,  for  you  have  made  yourselves  acquainted  even  in 
our  absence.  You  couldn't  be  mistaken,  of  course,"  turning  to  the 
countess,  "as  to  this  being  Harry  and  Mrs.  Chichele." 

The  countess  bit  the  top  of  her  fan  in  dubious  acquiescence.  "  On 
the  contrary,"  she  said  at  last,  after  an  awkward  pause,  with  marked 
coldness,  "I  concluded  these  couldn't  be  your  friends,  Ivan.  Indeed, 
the  very  first  thing  I  ever  said  to  them  was  just  that — that  the  people 
we  expected  this  afternoon  hadn't  turned  up.  To  my  mind,  Mrs. 
Chichele  dosen't  at'all  answer  to  the  description  you  gave  me  of  her. 
You  always  used  to  be  so  bad  at  description. " 

Ivan  and  Olwen  both  coloured  up  with  some  embarrassment.  The 
countess  perceived  it,  and  having  shot  her  bolt  and  seen  it  fall  on  the 
weak  spot,  she  was  woman  of  the  world  enough  to  retrieve  her  position 
at  once  with  feminine  strategy.  "  I  didn't  expect  any  one  half  so  young, 
and  girlish,  and  fresh,"  she  went  on,  with  a,  charming  smile  towards 
Olwen.  "  You  know,  Ivan,  you  hadn't  in  the  least  led  me  to  look  out 
for  a  Spenserian  idyl  in  pink  muslin.  So,  of  course,  we  haven't  dreamt 
of  introducing  ourselves  to  one  another.  Now,  my  dear  boy,  will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  be  master  of  the  ceremonies  ? " 

Ivan  laughed  an  uneasy  laugh.  "  Mrs.  Chichele,"  he  said,  "  you  will, 
of  course,  have  guessed  that  this  is  my  cousin,  Miss  Seeta  Mayne,  to 
whom  you  have  been  talking.  You  know,  Seeta,  Harry  Chichele  is  a 
■worn  admirer  of  all  your  novels. " 

Miss  Mayne  bowed ;  the  countess  had  dissappeared  from  the  scene  forth- 
with as  if  by  magic.  *'  Not  to  know  Dr.  Chichele,"  she  said  in  her  courtly 
grand  manner,  still  wielding  the  fan  as  if  it  had  been  a  sceptre,  "  argues 
one's  self  unknown,  I'm  afraid.  But  you  must  remember,"  she  added, 
half  apologetically,  "  I  see  so  little  in  my  humble  way  of  the  great  scien- 
tific world  of  London." 

Olwen  noticed  in  a  moment  two  small  points — first,  that  Seeta  Mayne 
thought  only  of  Harry  and  entirely  ignored  his  poor  little  wife  as  a 
mere  adjunct  of  the  clever  doctor  ;  second,  that  she  knew  as  if  by 
instinct  exactly  where  to  flatter  her  husband's  vanity.  In  a  vague  way, 
Olwen  was  already  afraid  of  this  great,  clever,  beautiful  woman — afraid 
of  her,  not,  of  course,  for  herself,  but  for  Harry — for  Harry. 

Three  minutes  after,  while  Harry  and  Olwen  where  exchanging  notei 
by  the  centre  table  with  Mohammad  Ali,  Seeta  Mayne  drew  Ivan  Roylt 


THB  devil's  dis.  99 

aside  into  a  quiet  corner.  "  My  dear  boy,"  she  said  to  him  in  a  ban- 
tering undertone,  yet  half  accusingly,  "  how  on  earth  could  you  ever 
dream  of  bo  absurdly  misleading  me  about  that  poor  little  Mrs.  Chichele 
of  yours  ?    Why,  Ivan,  you  told  me  she  was  pretty  1 " 

'*So  she  is,"  Ivan  answered  stoutly,  with  his  plain,  simple,  masculine 
common-sense.     "  The  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw  anywhere." 

Seeta  Mayne's  lip  curled  an  almost  imperceptible  and  delicate  curl. 
"  That  insignificant  baby-faced  little  doll  1"  she  murmured  with  a  bland 
and  tolerant  smile.  "  My  dear  Ivan,  you  will  never  be  a  judge  of 
beauty  in  women  1  A  poor  little  pink-and-white  atomy  like  that  1 
Pretty  indeed  1  And  you  call  yourself  a  painter  1  May  the  shade  of 
La  Fornarina  mercifully  forgive  you  !  " 

And  she  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  no  Fornarina  that  ever 
lived  on  earth  looked  in  her  time  one  half  so  beautiful. 

When  Olwen  sat  for  a  moment  by  the  olive-wood  fire  in  their  own 
room  late  that  evening,  she  said,  as  lightly  as  she  could,  but  still  with 
a  faltering  heart,  to  Harry,  "Well,  Harry,  and  what  do  you  think  of 
Seeta  Mayne  now  you've  actually  seen  her  9  " 

**  Think  1 "  Harry  echoed,  stirring  the  fire  with  a  dash  into  a  rousing 
flare  of  wild  sparks,  **  there's  only  one  thing  one  could  possibly  think, 
my  child,  that  she's  just  exactly  what  one  would  have  expected  her  to 
be  from  her  grand  writings.  But,  Olweu,  did  you  ever  in  your  life  see 
such  eyes  9    They  seem  to  pierce  right  through  and  through  one." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

**  I'm  rather  tired  at  last,  after  so  much  travelling,"  Olwen  said  at 
the  early  breakfast  next  day.  "  Don't  let's  go  anywhere  or  do  any- 
thing particular  this  morning,  Harry.  Let's  wait  to  explore  the  liona 
of  the  place  till  we've  got  over  the  fatigue  of  the  journey  a  little." 

**  All  right,"  Harry  answered  with  his  kind  smile.  '*  I  don't  care  a 
button  what  we  do,  darling,  now  we're  once  here  in  this  delicious  balmy 
air  and  sunshine.  It's  just  glorious,  isn't  it?  Just  look  at  the  rosea 
peeping  in  at  the  window,  for  all  the  world  like  dear  old  Polperran, 
Olwen  ;  and  the  great  fluffy  golden  mimosas  hanging  in  a  perfect  Cali- 
fornia of  bloom  on  the  boughs  over  yonder  I 

After  breakfast,  Harry  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  they  lounged  out 
together,  hatless  and  bootless,  on  to  the  garden  terrace.  To  Olwen, 
everything  was  rich  with  the  charm  of  novelty.  The  big  cactus  plants, 
with  their  pale  yellow  flowers  and  pri«kly  pears  ;  the  great  aloes,  with 
their  stout,  sharp,  needle-like  points  ;  the  clipped  date  palms,  with  their 
long  and  slender  feathery  foliage  ;  the  green  lizards  that  sucked  in  their 
sides  till  the  ribs  showed  through  their  shagreeced  skins  ;  the  birds,  the 
butterflies,  the  insects,  the  tree  toads,  all  alike  were  beauliful  and 


100  THi  DiTiL'f  mm. 

interesting.  She  oould  easily  loiter  away  a  whole  long  day  in  that 
enchanted  garden. 

At  a  turn  of  the  path,  as  they  strolled  on,  round  a  clump  of  oleanders 
in  full  bloom,  they  came  suddenly  upon  a  trio  of  their  acquaintance. 
Mohammad  Ali,  Ivan  Royle,  and  Seeta  Mayne  were  pacing  up  and 
down  the  sunny  terrace  towards  the  sea  before  them. 

Olwen's  eyes  fell  at  once  instinctively  on  the  countess.  Miss  Mayne 
was  dressed  this  morning  in  a  graceful  and  elegant  flowery  garden  dress, 
with  a  certain  delightful  Louis  Quinze  reminiscence  about  its  antique 
brooade-like  design  and  Pompadour  make-up.  Her  costume  was 
lighter  and  breezier  than  before,  but  she  looked  none  the  less  every 
inch  a  countess  for  all  that.  Only  she  was  a  countess  dressed  for  a  fete 
champetre^  at  Fontainebleau  now  ;  not  a  countess  attired,  as  she  had 
seemed  last  night,  for  a  royal  reception  at  Marli  or  the  Trianon. 

**  So  you're  down  at  last,"  Ivan  Royle  exclaimed,  coming  up  and 
grasping  their  hands  heartily.  *' Ali  and  I,  and  my  cousin  too,  break< 
fasted  half  an  hour  ago  or  more  ;  but  we  wouldn't  have  you  called — at 
least,  Ali  wouldn't — for  we  thought  Mrs.  Chichele  would  probably  be  a 
little  tired  this  morning  after  her  long  journey." 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  the  least  bit  tired,"  Olwen  cried  at  once,  with  true 
West  country  politeness  —your  West  country  folks  can  always  be  firmly 
depended  upon  to  say  whatever  is  most  nice  and  proper  under  all 
circumstances.  **  At  least,  that  is  to  say,  hardly  at  all  to  speak  of.  I 
never  mind  travelling  much.  Miss  Mayne,  because  I'm  so  little  used  to 
it,  I  suppose  ,  do  I,  Harry  ? " 

"  I've  no  doubt,  darling,"  Harry  answered,  demurely,  **  Miss  Mayne 
will  accept  your  unsupported  testimony." 

Olwen  blushed.  She  didn't  know  why,  but  she  was  annoyed  with 
Harry  for  just  then  saying  just  that  to  her.  It  was  a  frequent  habit  of 
hers,  as  it  is  of  most  wives,  so  to  appeal  to  her  husband  for  corrobora- 
tion of  unimportant  statements  ;  and  Harry  usually  laughed  off  her 
little  appeal  with  this  stock  speech  of  his,  which  relieved  him  from 
the  trouble  of  either  correcting  or  confirming  her  original  proposition. 
But  before  Seeta  Mayne  she  didn't  exactly  like  to  be  thus  put  down. 
She  somehow  felt  she  must  stand  upon  her  dignity  with  the  famous 
novelist. 

"I'm  so  glad  you're  not  tired,"  Seeta  Mayne  responded,  with  a 
charming  smile — and  when  she  chose  she  could  smile  deliciously  ;  *'  for 
I've  just  been  planning  a  little  excursion  of  my  own  for  us  all  this 
morning.  I  want  to  take  your  husband,  Mrs.  Chichele,  to  my 
favourite  spot  away  up  among  the  heights  of  our  glorious  Esterel.  It's 
A  lovely  bit.  I  showed  it  to  Ivan,  and  he's  made  a  simply  exquisite 
sketch  of  it  for  next  year's  Academy.  I'm  anxious  you  should  go  there 
for  your  first  trip,  that  Dr.  Chichele  may  get  a  general  cwip  d'ml,  and 
sea  at  once  what  manner  of  country  it  is  that  we  have  to  offer  him." 

Dr.  Chichele,  always  Dr.  Chichele,  Olwen  didn't  half  like  it.     She 

hesitated  a  moment.     **  Is  is  far  ? "  she  asked.     *'  Because- "    And 

there  she  broke  off  suddenly.  After  what  she  had  already  said  to  Seeta 
about  not  being  the  least  bit  tired  that  morning,  it  would  look  lik^  9^- 


DKTIL's  DIB.  101 

eontradiotion  now  to  plead  fatigue  as  a  sufficient  excuse  for  not  joining 
the  projected  party. 

'*  Oh  no,  it's  not  far,"  Seeta  Mayne  answered  with  careless  ease. 
**  At  least,  not  for  moderate  walkers  ;  and  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Chichele, 
after  your  Cornish  moors — Ivan  has  told  me  all  about  them,  of  course — 
you  don't  make  much  of  a  couple  of  dozen  miles  or  so. 

Mohammad  Ali,  with  his  quick  perception — like  a  woman  in  instinct 
and  a  man  in  feeling— came  at  once  to  Olwen's  assistance.  "  I  don't 
think,  Harry,"  he  paid  gently,  **  Mrs.  Chichele's  sufficiently  recovered 
from  the  fatigue  of  her  journey  to  venture  upon  such  a  serious  excursion 
this  morning." 

Ivan  Royle  seconded  him  in  haste.  *'  There's  no  hurry,  Seeta,"  ho 
said,  half  aside.  "  Chichele  and  Mrs.  Chichele  are  going  to  stop  here 
three  weeks,  and  the  Esterels  mean  to  remain  for  ever.  There'll  be 
plenty  of  time  to  go  another  day.  The  eternal  hills  will  always  wait 
for  one.  Let's  put  it  oflf  till  Mrs.  Chichele  feels  in  somewhat  better 
trim  for  mountain  climbing." 

Seeta  drew  herself  up  proudly  to  her  full  height.  **  I  wouldn't  for 
worlds  ask  Mrs.  Chichele  to  accompany  us,"  she  said,  with  frigid  polite- 
ness, **  if  the  fatigues  of  a  journey  from  Marseilles  to  Cannes  have  so 
profoundly  worn  and  overcome  her.  I  made  the  mistake  of  imagining 
from  what  you  so  often  told  me,  Ivan,  that  Mrs.  Chichele  was  a  con- 
firmed pedestrian  ;  was  accustomed  to  strolling  for  indefinite  distances 
over  endless  expanses  of  Cornish  moorland.  I  pictured  her  an  English 
Atalanta,  perpetually  roaming  through  illimitable  spaces.  I  didn't 
know  she  was  one  of  the  numberless  sufferers  from  the  impaired  health 
of  the  modern  Englishwoman.  She  must  excuse  my  error.  By  all 
means  let  her  rest  and  recruit  herself  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel  to-day. 
You'll  find  the  garden  a  most  delightful  lounge" — turning  to  Olwen, 
whose  face  was  now  a  bright  crimson — "  so  restful,  and  quiet,  and 
retired,  and  bowery.  Ivan,  you're  always  a  good  Samaritan.  You'll 
stop  at  home  and  look  after  Mrs.  Chichele,  I  know — one  good  turn 
deserves  another  ;  and  he's  never  tired  of  telling  me,  Mrs.  Chichele, 
how  very  kind  and  attentive  you  were  to  him  over  yonder  in  Cornwall. 
Indeed,  we  all  owe  you  so  many  thanks  for  all  your  goodness  to  all  our 
dear  ones.  Well,  Dr.  Ali  and  Dr.  Chichele,  you'll  come  with  me,  I'm 
sure,  and  I'll  take  you  to  the  very  loveliest  spot  in  all  the  valleys  of  my 
beloved  Esterel." 

Harry  glanced  at  Olwen  inquiringly.  "  Would  you  mind  my  going, 
Olwen  ? "  he  asked  in  a  hesitating  tone.  "  I'm  not  in  the  least  tired 
myself.  In  fact,  I'd  like  to  stretch  my  legs  a  bit  among  the  mountain 
tops  after  three  days'  continuous  railway  travelling." 

Foor  Olwen's  heart  was  divided  within  her  by  conflicting  emotions.  She 
couldn't  bear  to  be  left  at  home  alone  with  Ivan — it  would  be  so  awkward 
to  be  boxed  up  in  the  garden  for  a  whole  day  with  a  rejected  admirer 
— and  she  couldn't  bear  that  Harry  should  go  away  from  her  with  tJiis 
terrible,  clever,  overpowering  novelist  woman.  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  was  really  tired,  and  she  didn't  at  all  relish  the  idea  of 
plimbing  a  couple  of  thouuand  leet  or  lo  among  the  steep  paths  of  the 


102  THB  DEVIL'S  DIB. 

craggy  Esterel.  **  I  think  I  oould  go,  too,  Harry,"  she  answered  at 
last,  with  evident  hesitation.  *'  I'm  not  so  very  tired.  We  could  take 
A  cali  down  to  the  station,  couldn't  we  ;  and  it's  not  very  much  of  a 
climb,  is  it,  when  we  get  to  the  place  we're  going  to  start  from  ? " 

Mohammad  Ali  and  Ivan  Royle  both  warmly  protested  against  her 
fatiguing  herself,  and  Seeta  Mayne,  too,  put  in  her  word  against  her 
taking  any  unnecessary  trouble.  But  Seeta  Mayne's  protest  only  made 
Olwen  now  the  more  determined  to  go ;  and  Harry's  remonstrances 
being  evidently  lukewarm,  she  started  at  last,  much  against  her  will, 
for  this  horrid  excursion  among  the  hateful  Esterels. 

They  took  their  lunch  with  them,  and  set  out  on  their  tramp  from 
Agay  Station,  among  pine-shadowed  paths  that  led  rapidly  by  a  steep 
mount  up  to  the  ruddy  pinnacles  of  solid  red  porphyry.  Seeta  Mayne 
was  a  practised  mountaineer ;  she  climbed  the  rocks  with  grace  and 
ease,  accepting  Harry's  hand  over  the  most  difficult  places  rather  as  a 
tribute  to  her  inherent  womanhood,  Olwen  fancied  to  herself,  than 
from  any  actual  or  genuine  need  for  practical  assistance.  Olwen,  on 
the  other  hand,  felt  herself  decidedly  demoralized  and  out  of  training 
aft^r  her  year  spent  in  the  forced  and  feverish  gaieties  of  London.  She 
fell  behind  greatly  on  the  line  of  march,  straggling  perpetually,  though 
Ivan  and  Ali  did  their  best  to  assist  her  and  to  lighten  her  labour  ovei 
the  steepest  bits  of  the  rugged  ascent. 

After  many  windings  in  the  zigzag  path,  up,  and  up,  and  ever  up, 
with  Harry  and  Seeta  continually  in  front  of  them,  they  came  in  sight 
at  last  of  a  single  natural  obelisk  of  naked  rock,  rising  high  like  a  pillar 
of  rude  workmanship  above  a  tor  or  summit  of  the  weather-worn  por- 
phyry. On  its  very  top,  for  it  was  wide  and  massive,  Seeta  Mayne 
perched,  seated  in  triumph  like  a  queen  upon  her  throne,  waving  them 
forward  and  encouraging  them  to  come  on  with  her  delicately  embroid- 
ered cambric  handkerchief.  Olwen  toiled  on  and  up  wearily.  At 
length,  half  faint  with  climbing,  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  big  rock 
itself,  and  with  Ivan's  help  scaled  its  crannied  side,  till  they  all  sat 
down  panting  together  on  the  broad  platform,  with  the  whole  expanse 
of  the  surrounding  panorama  stretched  in  endless  perspective  before 
their  delighted  eyes. 

"It's  a  beautiful  view,  certainly,"  Olwen  ventured  to  murmur  as  she 
gazed  around.  "But,  do  you  know,  Miss  Mayne,  I  always  like  better 
to  look  at  the  hills  from  below  than  from  above.  I  love  the  gracious 
smiling  woods  and  valleys,  I  think,  far  more  than  these  vast  illimitable 
prospects." 

*'I  don't  at  all  agree  with  you,"  Seeta  Mayne  responded,  turning 
sharply  upon  her,  and  looking  poor  Olwen  through  and  through  with 
those  great  gray  eyes  of  hers.  "  For  my  part,  I  love  the  breezy  moun- 
tain tops.  I  love  the  broad  view  one  gets  from  the  imperial  heights. 
I  love  the  expanse,  the  width,  the  glory,  the  freedom.  It  delights  me 
to  stand,  like  Moses  on  Pisgah,  or  Michael  in  some  great  mediaeval 
cathedral  window,  on  the  exact  summit  of  some  jagged  peak — some 
needle  of  rock  that  pierces  the  very  vault  of  heaven  with  its  sharp  pin- 
nacle—and look  down  upon  all  the  dreamy  world  below,  valleyi  ai^d 


VBB  DSTIL'i  DIB.  103 

plftlm  and  cities  of  men" — and  she  waved  her  white  hand  vaguelj 
around  her  towards  Cannes  and  Nice  and  the  Italian  seaboard — 
**  fliretched  like  a  map  far  beneath  my  feet,  for  me  to  behold  and  learn 
Mid  eomment  upon." 

•*  I  am  on  your  eide,  Miss  Mayne,"  Harry  murmured  quietly,  drink- 
fav  in  the  view  trith  all  his  eyes  as  he  spoke.  **  I  love  the  vast,  the 
■vblime,  the  illimitable,  the  infinite.  A  valley  always  seems  to  choke 
and  stifle  me.  On  the  free  hill'topi  I  breathe  the  full  fresh  air  of 
heaven,  and  view  the  world  like  a  road  before  me  to  be  travelled  in  the 
future." 

For  ten  minutes  they  sat  and  looked,  talking  only  in  little  sudden 
bunts  of  exclamation  and  delight  about  that  white  village  on  the  green 
hill-top,  or  that  long  grey  road  winding  in  a  zigzag  through  the  rocky 
pass  over  yonder.  Then  Seeta  roused  herself  afresh  with  a  hasty 
start.  *  Well,  she  said,  looking  round  her,  ""  shall  we  go  on  now,  if 
yon  please,  Mrs.  Chichele  ? " 

"  Go  on  1 "  Olwen  cried,  a  little  distressfully.  "  Go  on  where  ?  Is 
there  somewhere  else  to  go  to  ?  I  thought,  do  you  know,  we  were 
there  already." 

*•  There  1 "  Seeta  echoed.  "Where?  At  our  journey's  end,  do  you 
mean  7  Oh,  dear  no,  must  decidedly  not.  The  spot  where  Ivan  made 
that  lovely  sketch  of  his  is  quite  half  an  hour  further  on  that  this,  away 
«p  among  tiie  other  mountains." 

**  Oh,  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  Olwen  replie'T.  with  a  flushing  face,  "but 
I'm  really  afraid  I  can't  go  on  another  step  for  all  the  views  in  Europe. 
It's  so  long  since  I've  done  any  mountain  climbing,  and  I'm  quite  tired 
already  now.  But  don't  let  me  keep  any  of  the  rest  of  you  back,  I  beg 
of  you.  I  can  stop  here  alone  till  you  all  return.  I  should  be  so  sorry 
to  think  1  interfered  with  any  of  your  plans  in  any  way. " 

**No,  no,"  Seeta  Mayne  answered,  not  at  all  unkindly,  for  she  saw 
Olwen  was  fairly  done  up.  "  You  do  look  tired,  really,  Mrs.  Chichele. 
I'm  afraid  it's  all  my  own  fault  too,  for  having  inveigled  you  into 
coming  against  your  will ;  though  you  know  I  advised  you  at  first  to 
stop  at  home  in  charge  of  Ivan,  didn't  I  ?  Well,  now,  you  mustn't 
dream  of  coming  a  step  further.  Ivan  has  seen  the  place  already,  of 
oourse,  and  knows  every  stick  and  stone  of  it  by  heart,  so  he'll  stop 
behind  here  gladly  and  take  care  of  you.  Dr.  Ali  and  your  husband 
will  come  on  with  me,  and  be  back  here  again  to  you  by  about  lunch 
time." 

*'  Oh,  please  don't,"  Olwen  cried  in  alarm.  To  be  left  for  an  hour  alone 
here  on  the  mountain  tops  with  Ivan  Royle,  would  be  almost  worse 
than  being  left  at  the  hotel  with  him.  What  on  earth  could  they  two 
find  to  talk  about  ? 

**  Oh  no,"  she  went  on,  after  a  short  pause.     "  Can't  you  all,  please, 

r>  ofif  together  ?     I  don't  a  bit  mind  being  left  alone.     I  really  don't, 
should  rather  prefer  it.     It's  so  beautiful  here,  and  I  should  like  to 
look  at  it  for  ever  and  ever." 

**  Impossible ! "     Ivan  answered  with  profound    conviction.     "'  La 
lonely  place!    And  all  by  yourself,  tool    Why,  there  are  wild 


104  TBM  DBYIL'fl  Oil. 

1>oar8  in  the  woods,  and  foxes  by  the  dozen,  and  I  don't  eyen  know 
that  there  mayn't  be  wolves,  too !  Better  stop  here,  Seeta,  all  the 
party,  and  have  lunch  together  on  this  jolly  platform.  The  Nook  can 
wait  for  a  more  conveniout  season." 

Seeta  planted  her  small  and  neatly-shod  foot  conspicuously  and  firmly 
on  the  rock  in  front  of  her.  "  When  1  puts  my  foot  down,  Ivan,"  she 
quoted  quietly,  with  her  benignest  smile,  '*I  puts  it  down,  an'  there's 
an  end  on  't.  I  hate  this  instability  and  infirmity  of  purpose.  1  was 
not  born  of  the  tribe  of  Reuben,  unstable  as  water,  who  shall  not 
excel.  We  started  out  to  go  to  the  Nook,  and  to  the  Nook  I  mean  to 
go,  unless  the  finger  of  fate  prevents  me.  Mrs.  Chichele  breaks  down 
by  the  way.  We  leave  her  here  under  efficient  protection.  Wa  go  on 
ourselves  to  our  original  objective.  Nothing  can  be  simpler.  Let's 
share  the  lunch,  in  case  we  don't  return  in  time  to  have  any.  Mrs. 
Chichele  and  you  can  stop  behind  and  have  a  nice  little  talk  together. 
The  two  doctors  and  I  will  continue  to  carry  out  our  original  pro- 
gramme." 

Olwen  looked  up  with  a  face  of  distress.  Mahommad  Ali  interposed 
to  save  her.  Of  two  evils,  he  chose  the  least.  If  he  could  have  split 
himself  up  into  two  people,  Mohammad  should  have  gone  on  with 
Harry  and  Miss  Mayne,  while  Ali  waited  behind  with  Ivan  Royle  and 
Olwen.  But,  failing  this  convenient  dual  personality,  at  present 
confined  to  esoteric  Buddhists  and  members  of  the  Physical  Research 
Society,  Mohammad  Ali  judged  it  best  in  his  entire  capacity  to  save 
Olwen  from  the  awkward  necessity  of  a  Ute-d-tete  with  Ivan.  '*  I  will 
etop,  too,"  he  said  in  his  firm,  quiet,  conclusive  manner.  **  Miss 
Mayne  is  an  amply  sufiScient  guide  by  herself,  Harry.  She  knows 
every  inch  and  corner  and  twist  and  turning  of  these  intricate  moun- 
tains. Mrs.  Chichele,  you  and  Royle  and  I  will  stop  and  lunch  hj 
ourselves  here  on  the  platform." 

The  plan  was  charming.  Nothing  could  have  suited  Seeta  Mayn« 
better.  She  preferred  the  freedom  of  an  untrammelled  conversation 
with  Harry  Chichele  to  the  restraints  of  Mrs.  Grundy  as  embodied  im 
the  third  person  of  Mohammad  Ali.  "  Very  well,"  she  said,  taking  a 
few  sandwiches  and  a  flask  from  the  basket.  *'  That'll  do  as  well  as 
anything  else.  Come  along,  Dr.  Chichele.  We'll  start  at  once.  Let 
us  leave  tliesa  others  to  their  lower  levels.  They  prefer  to  remain. 
You  and  I  will  tread  the  mountain  heights  together.' 

You  and  1  will  tread  the  mountain  heights  together  1  These  ominous 
words  fixed  themselves  deeply  into  Olwen's  tortured  heart  and  memory. 
She  scented  dimly  in  her  own  vague  way  the  danger  for  the  future  that 
the  words  enclosed  for  her.  They  were  indeed  prophetic.  For  her, 
the  lower  levels  of  thought  and  sencio ;  for  those  two,  the  mountain 
heights  of  romance  together  1 

Half  way  down  the  rock,  Seeta  Mayne  turned  and  called  out  in  her 
clear  queenly  voice  to  Ivan,  *'  Look  out  for  us  at  the  Nook.  I'll  flasit 
the  mirror  at  you." 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  Olwen  asked  in  surprise. 

**  Oh,"  Ivan  answered,  with  a  quiet  smile,  *^  it'a  only  vim  of  S^etelt 


THS  DKYIL'8  DIB.  105 

dodges.  She  telegraphs,  you  knovr,  by  the  Morse  code,  with  a  little 
pocket  mirror  she  always  carries.  She'll  let  us  know  by  a  series  of 
flashes  when  she  and  your  husband  finally  get  there.  Seeta's  all  made 
up  of  dodges.     She  does  nothing  like  ordinary  people." 


CHAPTER  XX.  ^ 

They  sat  long  on  the  rocky  platform,  talking  for  the  most  part  of 
the  view  and  the  surroundings,  while  Olwen  with  her  field  glass  fol- 
lowed her  husband  and  Seeta  Mayne  anxiously  from  afar,  as  they 
threaded  their  way  along  the  mountain  paths,  towards  the  point  where 
Ivan  had  recently  sketched  his  much  talked  of  picture.  At  times,  the 
two  wayfarers  disappeared  altogther  beneath  the  over-arching  pme 
trees  or  behind  the  projecting  spurs  of  the  nearer  mountains ;  at  times, 
they  stood  forth  again  upon  some  rocky  ledge,  or  showed  themselves 
for  a  moment  in  strong  relief  against  the  cold  grey  background  of  the 
northern  sky-line.  But  whenever  they  were  visible  one  thing  was 
clear  ;  they  were  always  talking  away  together  with  the  same  evident 
interest,  animation,  and  vividness  as  ever.  Olwen  could  easily  make 
out  with  the  glass  the  very  movements  of  Seeta  Mayne's  impetuous 
hand,  and  the  rapid  gesticulation  of  her  arms  and  her  alpenstock. 
They  were  enjoying  their  talk  immensely,  no  doubt ;  two  such  clever 
talkers  are  always  sure  to  appreciate  one  another,  and  to  get  on  swim- 
mingly in  conversation  together. 

By-and-by,  Mohammad  Ali  set  out  the  lunch,  and  they  ate  their 
sandwiches  and  drank  their  claret  on  their  rocky  couch,  laughing  and 
talking  more  merrily  now  beneath  the  open  sky,  and  with  that  grand 
panorama  of  sea  and  mountain  stretched  ever  before  them  in  glorious 
perspective. 

After  lunch,  &  beautiful  bunch  of  crimson  anemones  hanging  out  from 
a  cleft  of  rock  on  the  slope  opposite  attracted  for  a  moment  Olwen's 
eye,  .-^nd  she  cried  to  Ivan  in  a  careless  way,  **  How  pretty  they  are  ! 
I  should  like  to  have  them." 

At  the  word,  the  two  young  men  darted  off  with  one  accord  to  fetch 
the  flowers.  They  ran  lightly  down  the  slope  of  the  valley  and  up  the 
opposite  bank,  in  evidont  emulation,  eager  each  to  secure  the  prize 
before  the  other  could  reach  it.  Mohammad  Ali  was  the  first  to  pick 
them  ;  be  was  a  lighter  and  nimbler  man  tlian  Ivan.  Olwen  was 
pleased  ;  she  preferred  the  Indian  should  get  them  rather  tlian  the 
Englishman. 

On  the  way  back,  at  the  bottom  of  tlio  slope,  Ali  paused  for  a  second 
and  looked  hard  at  Ivan.  *'  This  is  a  bad  business,  Royle,"  he  said, 
waving  Iiis  hand  towards  Olwen,  with  profound  distress  in  every  line 
of  his  countenance. 

**  Wb»t  buimow  Y"  Iv»o  (mk«d,  m\j  half  undetitHnUing  him,  (•rhii 


106  THE  devil's  DIB. 

perceptions  were  far  less  quick  and  instantaneous  than  his  oriental 
companion's. 

"  Why,  this  business  between  Chichele  and  Miss  Mayne,"  the  Indian 
answered  slowly.  *'  I  see  danger  signals  looming  ahead.  A  red  light 
on  the  starboard  bow.  And  what's  worse,  Mrs.  Chichele  herself  sees 
them  too.     Sees  them,  and  is  already  very  much  alarmed  at  them." 

Ivan  Royle  stopped  and  glanced  at  him  astonished.  "  Seeta  Mayne's 
the  haughtiest  woman  on  earth,"  he  said  shortly.  '*She  moves  on  a 
very  high  plane.     No  man  that  lives  dare  ever  speak  one  single  word 

or  syllable  amiss  to  her.     I  don't  think  01 ,  Mrs.  Chichele,  I  mean 

— need  trouble  herself  about  that  matter.  Seeta's  as  cold  as  ice  and  as 
proud  as  Lucifer." 

*'  So  I  see,"  the  Indian  answered,  with  the  calm  confidence  ot  a  priori 
conviction.  '*  I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid  on  that  score.  The  plane  on 
which  she  moves  is  indeed  an  ideal  one.  I  only  tremble  for  her  influ- 
ence  on  Harry." 

Ivan  answered  never  a  word.  He  only  pondered  by  himself  mutely. 
They  walked  back  in  silence  to  the  isolated  rock  where  Olwen  sat,  and 
Mohammad  Ali  handed  her  the  anemones  with  his  stately  bow  of  orien- 
tal courtesy.  Olwen  received  them  with  a  sweet  smile  of  cordial  recog- 
nition— a  smile  that  Ivan  Royle  fairly  envied  him.  *'  I  think  Miss 
Mayne  is  flashing  to  us,"  she  said  as  she  took  them  ;  "at  least,  I  see 
the  light  of  a  mirror  coming  and  going  very  often,  Mr.  Royle." 

**  So  she  is,"  Ivan  cried,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  gazing 
northward.  *'  I  can  see  it  distinctly.  And  what's  more,  she's  half*way 
through  her  message  now.  Two  dots  and  a  dash  ;  that's  I,  you  know. 
Then  comes  e,  a,  n,  d,  t,  a,  r,  e,  g,  o,  i,  n,  gf,"  and  he  spelt  out  the  mess- 
age letter  by  letter,  writing  it  down  in  pencil  as  he  went,  on  the  back 
of  an  envelope. 

*'  Here's  what  I  make  it,"  he  said  at  last,  handing  the  envelope  with 

its  inscription  across  to  Olwen.     '*  * le  and  I  are  going  down  direct 

to  Agay  Station.  Later  than  we  thought.  No  time  to  return  for  you 
to  the  summit. '  The  first  words  are  missing  ;  but,  of  course,  she  means 
'  Dr.  Chichele.'  They  won't  come  back  for  us,  that's  plain ;  and  wo 
must  start  soon,  too,  if  we  want  to  catch  the  3.40  home  again." 

He  gave  his  hand,  as  he  spoke  with  a  smile,  to  Olwen,  who  took  it  at 
once  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  all  too  lightly,  and  tried  to  descend 
with  an  easy  jump  or  two  from  the  summit  of  the  pinnacle.  But  tha 
crannies  in  which  she  had  to  put  her  little  feet  were  damp  and  treach- 
erous with  moss  and  mould.  She  missed  her  foothold  in  the  first  she 
tried,  and  stumbling  at  the  mishap,  fell  slightly,  with  only  the  tip  of 
Ivan's  hand  to  keep  her  from  falling  over  bodily.  In  a  second,  Mo- 
hammad Ali  had  leaped  from  the  top  on  to  the  ground  below — a  dan- 
gerous jump  for  one  less  lithe  than  he — and  clambering  up  the  side  in 
breathless  haste,  he  gave  Olwen  the  chance  of  supporting  herself  with 
her  hand  upon  his  sturdy  shoulder.  Olwen  steadied  herself  thus  with 
great  difficulty,  and  allowed  the  Indian  to  help  her  in  his  arms  down 
to  the  bottom.  As  soon  as  she  felt  herself  on  firm  ground  again,  sh« 
fliftt  down  ou  the  bare  rock  with  Qvery  mftck  of  paio  in  b«r  twitohiay 


THB  DEYIL^S  DIl.  107 

face.  **  Fve  huri  my  ankle,"  she  said,  holding  her  foot  out  straight  in 
a  rigid  attitude.  "  I'm  almost  afraid  I  must  have  sprained  it.  Itaohet 
dreadfully.  What  am  I  to  do,  so  far  from  home,  and  with  Harry  away, 
too,  up  there  among  the  mountains  1 " 

Mohammad  Ali,  doctor  as  he  was,  did  not  dare  to  presume  upon  hi* 
professional  character  even  to  examine  that  small  dainty  foot  of  hen. 
*'  Let  us  wait  awhile,"  he  said,  bending  over  her  eagerly,  *'  and  see  if 
it  gets  better  soon  of  itself.  It  may  be  only  a  passing  wrench.  A  few 
minutes'  rest  often  sets  an  injury  of  that  sort  all  right  again." 

But  in  this  particular  case  a  few  minutes'  rest  did  nothing  of  the  sort, 
nor  at  all  like  it.  On  the  contrary,  when  Olwen  tried  to  move  it  again 
some  moments  later,  she  gave  a  sudden  little  cry  of  sharp  pain,  and 
screwed  up  her  face  once  more  in  evident  agony. 

"Can  you  move  it,  so?"  Mohammad  Ali  asked  in  much  anxiety, 
twisting  his  own  foot  with  his  hand  a  little  freely  in  the  socket. 

Olwen  tried  with  her  own  fingers.  '*  Oh  no,"  she  answered,  almost 
crying  with  pain  ;  "it  hurts  me  horribly.  It's  awfully  bad.  There 
•eems  to  be  something  there  that's  strained  or  contracted." 

Mohammad  Ali  looked  hard  at  Ivan.  "  Royle,"  he  said,  "  this  is  a 
serious  injury.  The  joint's  sprained,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  that. 
Stop  you  here  with  Mrs.  Chichelo,  please.  I'll  go  down  to  Agay  and 
borrow  an  invalid  chair  to  carry  her  down  in.  On  no  account  must  she 
walk  upon  it  in  her  present  condition." 

"  Hadn't  I  better  go  ? "  Ivan  asked,  dubiously.  '*  I  know  the  people, 
and  can  get  anything  I  want  from  them. " 

**.A7"o,'  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  with  a  firm  decision  in  his  clear 
voice,  which  made  Ivan  feel  at  once  he  had  some  perfectly  good  and 
sufficient  reason  for  what  he  said.  *'  My  French  will  carry  me  through 
venr  well  for  all  I  want,  thank  you.  It  will  be  better  so.  Stop  here 
with  Mrs.  Chichele  till  1  come  again."  And  before  Ivan  or  Olwen 
could  say  anything  further  or  change  his  plan,  the  Indian  was  off,  with 
his  light  and  rapid  oriental  step,  bounding  like  a  chamois  down  the 
slopes  of  the  mountain. 

Ivan  vaguely  recognized  in  his  own  mind  that  Ali  was  right  in  hie 
course  of  action.  If  Olwen  must  stop  alone  for  an  hour  with  any  man 
on  the  lonely  mountain  tops,  it  was  best  she  should  stop  not  with  the 
Indian,  but  with  her  own  fellow-countryman.  Being  a  black  man  cuts 
both  ways..  There  are  times  and  seasons  when  it  counts  for  a  perfect 
automatic  protection  from  Mrs.  Grundy,  and  there  are  times  when  it 
serves  to  call  forth  the  severest  and  profoundest  comments  of  that 
dreadful  potentate  of  Seeta  Mayne's  special  detestation.  Mohammad 
Ali  had  judged  aright  at  once  by  instinct.  Ivan  Royle,  following  him 
at  a  distance  by  the  slower  and  dimmer  light  of  reason  instead,  con- 
cluded at  last  on  the  whole  that  he  had  acted  wisely. 

But  what  an  hour  of  torture  and  suspense  that  wise  action  of  hit 
entailed  upon  both  of  them  in  their  awkward  shyness  1  They  were 
both  self-oonscioiiB,  and  both  endeavoured  to  hide  their  self-conscious- 
ness, which  of  all  gratnitou«  forms  of  deception  known  to  humanity  is 
tke  lOMt  »bsoltttely  transparent  and  the  must  utterly  luUle.    I7U» 


10$  THE  DKTIL'S  DIt. 

dared  not  even  steal  a  glance  sideways  afc  poor  blushing  Olwen ;  he 
dared  not  look  her  straight  in  the  face,  and  he  dared  not  let  her  see 
that  he  dared  not.  Now  and  again  their  eyes  met  timidly  on  neutral 
ground,  as  it  were,  for  a  second  ;  and  then  they  both  let  them  drop 
again  with  a  sudden  awkwardness,  and  pretended  not  to  notice  that 
they  had  either  of  them  observed  it.  A  dozen  times  one  or  other 
exclaimed,  in  i>  wearied-out,  nervous,  half-peevish  way,  "  I  wonder 
when  they'll  bring  that  chair  up  1  " 

At  last,  after  they  had  fairly  exhausted  the  resources  of  common- 
place, and  were  racking  their  brains  for  anything  else  of  absolute  inanity 
and  harmless  platitude,  to  fill  up  the  gaps  in  their  languishing  conver- 
sation, they  saw  Mohammad  Ali  hurrying  up  the  slope,  with  a  couple 
of  porters,  bearing  between  them  an  invalid  chair,  borrowed  in  haste 
from  the  occupants  of  a  villa  down  below  ai  Agay. 

At  the  sight  Ivan  breathed  again  freely  for  the  first  time  since  Ali 
left  him.  They  put  Olwen  into  the  chair,  and  Ali  and  Ivan  assisted 
the  porters  in  carrying  her  down,  t^  ensure  against  a  fall  as  well  aa 
against  any  unnecessary  jerking  or  shaking  of  the  injured  limb. 

At  the  station,  of  course,  they  were  too  late  for  the  train  they  had 
originally  intended  to  catch,  and  they  saw  no  sign  of  Harry  and  Seeta. 
A  monsieur  and  a  grand  lady  had  gone  off  by  the  preceding  train,  the 
station-master  told  them  ;  the  monsieur  had  just  come  up  at  the  last 
moment  to  take  his  tickets,  and  had  jumped  into  a  carriage  on  the 
point  of  departure,  inquiring  whether  two  other  gentleman  and  an 
English  lady  had  already  arrived  there.  So  Ali  and  Ivan  set  down 
Olwen  in  the  bare  little  waiting-room  at  the  tiny  gare^  still  seated  in 
her  chair,  and  patiently  attended  the  5.20  train. 

Meanwhile,  Harry  and  Seeta,  in  blissful  ignorance  of  all  that  was 
happening,  had  "trod  the  mountain  heights  together,"  much  to  their 
own  mutual  and  internal  satisfaction.  They  had  walked  along  the 
path  to  the  Nook,  sometimes  pausing  to  pick  a  flower  or  admire  the  view, 
sometimes  strolling  idly  by  the  ledges  of  the  rock,  sometimes  buried 
in  the  profound  shade  of  the  pine  trees,  but  always  deep  in  conversa- 
tion with  one  another  on  topics  that  seemed  to  come  and  go  with  all 
the  varied  and  lightening-like  rapidity  of  a  clever  woman's  many-sided 
mind. 

So  they  strolled  on,  oblivious  of  the  time,  and  full  only  of  themselves 
and  of  one  another.  At  the  Nook  itself,  a  beautiful  little  gorge,  deep 
among  the  rocks  and  woods,  and  thick  with  flowers,  Harry  drew  back 
suddenly  with  a  start  of  recognition.  "Ivan  Royle  ia  not  the  only 
artist  who  has  painted  this  bit,"  he  said  quickly,  with  a  glance  at  her 
face  and  a  deep-drawn  breath  of  evident  admiration.  ' '  I  recognize  it 
at  once.  I  have  seen  it  before,  drawn  by  a  far  more  delicate  and  poeti- 
cal brush  than  even  Royle  himself  can  wield.  I  should  have  known  it 
anywhere,  no  matter  how  or  when  1  came  upon  it." 

"Indeed,"  Seeta  cried,  flushing  up  with  pleasure,  yet  half  in  doubt 
itUl  as  to  whether  he  really  meant  it.  "  Where  have  you  seen  it 't  At 
the  Academy,  perhaps,  or  in  the  Paris  Salon  ? " 

**No,"  Harry  answered,  with  a  shi^ke  of  his  head  and  a  rosponsiv* 


TBI  DV7ID'|  Btl.  lOi 

tnnilt.  "  In  a  far  more  gracious  gallery  than  eHher.  In  *  The  Price  of 
Wisdom.'  I  see  at  a  glance  this  is  the  very  spot  where  your  hero  reveak 
the  secret  of  his  heart  to  Gladys  Trevelyan. " 

*'  It  is,"  Seeta  replied,  with  that  pleased  thrill  that  an  author  always 
feels  at  the  slightest  touch  of  personal  recognition.  **  I'm  glad  yom 
know  the  place  again.  I  took  great  pains  when  I  drew  that  scene  witb 
my  little  background — only  a  touch  or  two,  yet  chosen,  I  thought,  with 
effective  selection.  A  stroke,  well  chosen,  I  often  think,  may  put  a 
whole  view  before  the  reader's  mind." 

*'  Clearly,"  Harry  answered  ;  "  otherwise,  how  could  I  recognize  hi 
Why,  here  are  the  very  lichens  on  the  joints  of  the  rocka,  and  here'i 
the  great  red  ice-worn  boulder  that  Gladys  sat  upon  with  her  poor  little 
heart  throbbing  and  fluttering,  while  Owen  told  her  the  story  of  hii 
hopeless  passion.  It's  a  beautiful  scene — a  wonderful  scene.  I  don'l 
know  th;^t  any  scene  in  all  fiction  has  ever  stirred  me  or  thrilled  me 
more  profoundly." 

"Than  this  viewl"  Seeta  suggested,  with  intentional  misundev- 
standing. 

*'  Miss  Mayne  1  How  can  you  ?  You  must  take  me  for  a  stone. 
And  you,  too,  who  yourself  created  it  1  If  any  one  else  had  said 
such  a  thing  as  that  to  me,  I  would  have  called  him  an  insensible  block 
of  marble  1  No,  not  this  view,  but  that  delicious  scene  in  *'  The  Price 
of  Wisdom,'  where  Owen  breaks  his  love  so  gently  to  dear  little  Gladys. 
When  I  came  to  those  terrible,  crushing  words,  *  Gladys,  Gladys,  I 
cannot  marry  you  1  I'm  married  already  t '  the  tears  rose  hot  and 
irrepressible  in  my  eyes,  and  I  could  have  cried  for  hours  for  the  hope- 
less misery  of  those  two  poor  unhappy  young  lovers." 

Seeta  gazed  at  him  long  and  straight.  Her  delicate  nostrils  quivered 
and  dilated.  Her  eyes  flashed  fire,  and  then  fell  again  for  a  moment. 
His  obvious  appreciation  made  her  heart  flutter.  At  last  she  raised 
her  eyelids  once  more,  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face  for  a  second. 
**Let  us  have  our  lunch.  Dr.  Chichele,"  she  said  outright,  with 
cold  matter-of-fact  calmness,  in  a  clear,  unconcerned  straightforward 
fashion. 

Nothing  she  could  have  said  would  have  shown  him  more  fully  how 
much  she  was  aflected  by  his  praise  of  her  story.  It  was  a  transparent 
subterfuge — she  meant  it  as  such.  He  had  touched  her  on  a  very 
tender  spot.  She  wished  him  to  see  it.  She  did  not  dare  to  continua 
the  conversation. 

They  both  started  and  looked  away  in  haste.  Seeta  threw  herself 
down  gracefully  on  tiie  grass  beside  the  big  red  boulder.  Harry  pulled 
from  his  pocket  his  wicker-covered  flask,  and  drawing  off  the  silver  cup 
at  the  bottom,  filled  it  with  claret  and  handed  it  to  Seeta.  She  took 
it  graciously,  with  a  responsive  nod,  and  holding  a  sandwich  daintily 
between  her  delicate  finger  and  thumb — even  a  sandwich  became 
instinct  with  poetry  in  Seeta  Mayne's  beautiful  hands — she  drained  off 
the  claret  at  a  single  long  draught,  with  an  action  like  H}iat  of  some 
sculptured  nymph  or  picturesque  bacchante.  Then,  smi  ig  at  Hany 
bar  moat  charming  smile,  she  stretchcc^  ou^  h^  b«acl  lor  the  flask  het- 


110  TRK   DiyiL*8   Dim 

■elf  and  poured  him  out  a  cupful  of  the  sparkling  \rine  in  return,  with 
the  very  manner  of  a  marble  Hebe.  In  passing  it  over,  she  handed  it 
to  him  naturally  with  the  other  side  of  the  cup  turned  towards  him 
from  that  out  of  which  she  had  herself  drunk  ;  but  it  did  not  escape  her 
quick  eye  that  Harry  turned  the  vessel  carefully  round,  so  as  to  let  his 
own  lips  touch  where  hers  had  touched  before  him.  The  little  act  of 
homage  naturally  pleased  her.  Harmless  homage  to  a  beautiful  woman. 
A  beautiful  woman  expects  as  much,  and  accepts  it  as  her  due,  who- 
'  ever  pays  it  to  h-^r. 

After  a  while,  Harry  drew  his  watch  carelessly  from  his  pocket. 

"By  Jove,"  he  cried,  ** how  the  time's  gone  !  It  flies,  indeed,  in 
such  converse.  We  shall  miss  the  train,  I'm  afraid.  It's  past  two,  I 
declare,  already." 

*'  There's  another  way  down,"  Seeta  answered  lightly,  not  without  a 
certain  smile  of  inward  contentment.  "  I'll  flash  to  Ivan  to  meet  us  ab 
the  station.  It'll  give  us  longer  for  our  talk  together  ;  and,  after  all, 
for  conversation,  two  is  really  the  ideal  number. " 

She  drew  the  little  mirror  from  her  reticuk  as  she  spoke,  and  flashed 
her  message  with  rapid  precision  across  to  the  pinnacle. 

Presently,  as  they  sat  there  still  on  the  grass,  Harry  began  again 
about  "  The  Price  of  Wisdom  "  and  her  other  books.  But  Seeta,  for 
her  part,  rather  avoided  the  subject  than  otherwise.  "  Don't  let's  talk 
about  my  work,"  she  said  at  last,  proudly,  with  a  half-contemptuous 
toss  of  her  queenly  head,  and  a  haughty  shrug  of  her  imperial  shoulders, 
**  Let's  talk  about  yours,  please.  Dr.  Chichele.  Don't  pay  me  the  bad 
compliment  of  taking  me  for  a  mere  novelist — of  supposing  I  think  my 
own  poor  small  line  of  authorship  can  compare  for  a  moment  in  worth 
and  importance  with  the  deep  things  of  thought  or  philosophy.  I  try 
to  attain  what  perfection  I  can,  to  be  sure,  in  my  own  petty  and  shallow 
department  of  art  ;  but  I  know  well  enough  that  when  all's  said  and 
done,  art  itself  is  simply  nowhere  by  the  side  of  science,  the  profound, 
the  immeasurable." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  Harry  answered,  flattered,  and  therefore 
disposed  to  be  generously  self-depreciative.  *'  Imagination's  a  marvel- 
lous faculty  in  its  own  way.  The  ability  to  fill  an  ideal  world  with  high 
creations  of  one's  own  formative  and  constructive  fancy  appear*  to  me, 
I  confess,  one  of  the  greatest  and  deepest  endowments  of  genius.  For 
example,  when  I  read  *  Penora  *  and  '  The  Price  of  Wisdom,'  for  my 
own  part,  I  stand  aghast  and  astonished  and  humbled  before  it." 

*'  No,  no,"  Seeta  cried,  waving  her  hand  in  contradiction,  and  warm- 
ing up  as  she  spoke  into  one  of  her  wild  rhapsodical  humours.  *'  You're 
wrong.  Dr.  Chichele.  Imagination's  all  very  well  in  its  way,  no  doubt, 
but  the  power  to  discover  and  to  recognize  the  great  underlying  truthi 
of  nature  is  an  immeasurably  higher  and  nobler  faculty.  Man  stands 
face  to  face  in  the  last  resort  with  an  infinite  univesse,  a  system  of  suns, 
the  outcome  of  a  vast  and  illimitable  energy.  What  is  man,  I  wonder, 
among  the  atoms  and  the  systems  ?  What  is  woman,  I  wonder,  among 
the  eternities  and  the  infinities  ?  A  speck,  a  dot,  a  nothing,  an  iota. 
The  philosopher  looks  forth  with  keen  glance  aorou  the  immeaaunbU 


THI  DEYIL'8  DII.  Ill 

abysses  of  time  and  dpace,  and  sees  the  formless  waste  of  chaos  slowlj 
setting  into  suns  and  stars  and  rings  and  planets.     He  sees  life  unfold- 
ing by  tentative  steps  on  the  cooling  surface  of  some  petty  world.     He 
sees  and  knows  in  its  own  essence  the  very  heart  and  core  of  things 
mundane  and  spiritual,  as  physic  and  metaphysic  combine  to  show  it  to 
him.     And  then,  at  the  very  moment  when  my  vision  aches  with  the 
yastness  of  the  space  and  the  length  of  the  time  he  unfolds  before  me 
— you  come,  you,  a  man  of  science  yourself — to  tell  me,  with  your 
pleasant  condescending  smile,  that  the  power  of  inventing  a  pretty  little 
story  about  how  a  nice  little  man  falls  in  love  with  a  nice  little  girl,  and 
after  many  vicissitudes  finally  marries  or  does  not  marry  her  (which  ia 
at  bottom,  of  course,  the  alternative  framework  of  all  possible  or  actual 
romances),  outweighs  in  value  these  wonderful  faculties  of  yours  for 
beholding  and  conceiving  the  inmost  facts  and  realities  of  nature  !    If 
you  expect  me  to  believe  you,  you  must  take  me  for  a  proud,  conceited 
fool.    No,  no,  I'll  hear  no  more  about  it,  from  you  or  from  any  man  1 
A  friend  once  told  me  that  George  Eliot  was  in  his  eyes  a  much  greater 
genius  than   Herbert  Spencer  ;  and  I  conceived  at  once  a  very  low 
opinion  of  my  friend's  intelligence.     Despise  me,   if  you  like,  as  a 
woman,  a  trifler,  a  mere  novelist ;  but  don't,  at  least,  suppose  I  have 
no  soul  superior  to  novel-writing.     Do  me  the  honour  to  think  me  at 
any  rate  api)reciative  of  better  things.     I  know  what  is  great  whenever 
I  find  it ;  I  know  what  is  great,  and  I  worship  it  accordingly."    And 
she  looked  up  at  him  from  the  grass  where  she  lay,  with  the  worship 
pouring  forth  most  intoxicatingly  from  those  great  gray  eyes  of  here, 
and  that  exalted  languishing  far-away  expression  on  her  face  which 
sometimes  comes  to  beautiful  women  in  their  supremest  moments. 

If  Olwen  could  only  have  seen  them  just  then  as  she  sat  far  below 
with  Ivan  by  the  foot  of  the  rock,  it  would  not  have  been  her  ankle 
alone  that  ached  and  pained  her.  Her  heart  would  have  felt  a  sudden 
wrench.  Those  two  were,  indeed,  treadiug  the  mouutaiu  height! 
together. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Harby  Chichels  was  in  his  element.  Seeta  suited  him.  Th« 
Incense  of  that  beautiful  woman's  subtle  flattery,  so  profound,  so 
intense,  so  impersonal,  so  eloquently  expressed,  mounted  up  like  the 
fumes  of  wine  to  his  heated  brain,  and  fairly  turned  his  head  with  its 
inebriating  influence.  He  could  have  sat  there  for  ever  and  listened  to 
Seeta's  views  upon  himself  and  the  universe — if  he  had  not  had  to  go 
back  at  3.4'">,  t )  Canm  ■  and  to  Olwen. 

"  Come,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  rising  slowly  from  hia  moss-grown 
•oat  by  the  boulder,  with  his  watch  cradled  in  the  hollow  of  hia  hand. 
**  We  must  be  moving  now.  I've  been  counting  the  minutes.  II  Wf 
don't  liMJgy  wo  shall  miss  them  ali  down  yondw  at  Agi^,** 


118  THB  DBVIL'b  DIB. 

Seeta  ronsed  herself  at  the  word  from  the  infinities  and  eternities  j 
shook  off  the  Cosmos  with  a  graceful  movement  of  her  loose  skirts  ; 
brought  back  her  eyes  from  the  abysses  of  air ;  and  returned  with  a 
start  to  solid  earth  on  the  flanks  of  the  Esterel.  She  had  been  pervad- 
ing space  ;  she  must  now  return  to  Cannes  and  dinner. 

At  the  railway  at  Agay  they  failed  to  find  01  wen  and  her  two  com- 
panions ;  but  arriving  at  the  very  last  moment  them!  elves,  they  jumped 
in  hastily  and  went  home  together  by  the  3.40  train,  fully  expecting  to 
meet  their  party  from  another  carriage  at  the  Cannes  StKbion.  No 
Olwen  yet  appearing,  however,  they  walked  up  to  the  hotel,  still  tete-a- 
tetty  without  much  misgiving,  for  Harry  did  not  suspect  any  harm  had 
come  to  his  wife  with  such  efficient  guides  as  Ali  and  Ivan. 

As  they  neared  the  hotel  he  turned  to  Seeta  and  observed  with  a  sigh, 
**  This  has  been  a  very  delightful  outing.  I'm  sorry  it's  over.  What 
a  glorious  introduction  a  day  in  the  country  is  together  1  To  think  that 
you  and  I  only  met  yesterday,  and  yet  to-day  we're  old  friends 
already." 

"  True,"  Seeta  answered.  **  But  chance  alone  is  only  half  the  secret. 
We  needed  no  introduction  to  one  another.  You  knew  me  before  in 
my  books  ;  I  knew  you  before  in  your  scientific  discoveries.  That's 
the  best  of  the  orbit  in  which  such  people  as  you  and  I  revolve.  The 
world  at  large,  when  it  meets  its  peers,  has  slowly  to  pick  up  by  vague 
side  hints,  a  bit  at  a  time,  something  about  their  tastes,  their  ideas, 
their  habits,  their  opinions.  You  and  I,  when  we  first  cross  one  an- 
other's path,  meet  with  our  acquaintance  already  more  than  half  formed; 
we  know  one  another  in  part  by  anticipation.  A  thousand  traits  of 
character  and  thought  are  familiar  to  start  with  ;  a  thousand  modes  of 
expression  strike  upon  one's  ears  with  the  pleasing  and  delightful  ring 
of  long-standing  acquaintanceship. " 

•*But  our  walk,  too,  has  brought  us  very  much  nearer  together," 
Harry  went  on  reflectively.  "  I  feel  now  as  if  I  had  known  you  always. 
You  wem  like  somebody  I've  met  for  years  past." 

**  Ko  doubt,"  Seeta  replied.  "  It  is  the  same  with  me.  I  have 
indeed  gained  a  friend.  That's  a  rare  gain  in  life,  Dr.  Chichele.  I  have 
made  but  few.  You  are  one  of  them.  I  knew  beforehand  you  would 
be  from  what  I  had  read  of  you." 

"And  yet,"  Harry  mused,  **  our  lines  lie  so  very  far  apart." 

"  That's  nothing."  Seeta  answered,  lifting  her  eyes  once  more.  "  We 
are  akin  for  all  that.     Thought  always  sympathizes  with  thought." 

She  spoke  sincerely,  and  flooded  him,  as  she  loved  to  do,  with  the 
glory  of  her  great  grey  eyes.  A  woman  novelist  specially  values  the 
esteem  of  those  whom  she  regards  as  men  of  scientific  and  philosophical 
eminence.  She  doesn't  wish  to  be  considered  a  mere  story-teller.  She 
wants  the  applause  of  real  thinkers.  The  evident  admiration  of  Dr. 
Chichele,  the  professor  of  aetiology,  and  great  authority  on  microbes 
and  germs  and  epidemic  diseases,  flattered  Seeta  Mayne  to  the  top  of 
her  bent  every  bit  as  much  as  the  evident  admiration  of  Seeta  Mayne, 
the  beautiful  woman  and  distinguished  novelist,  flattered  and  deliglited 
y*rry  CluohelQf  Each  was  particularly  pleased  wjtjl  ^P  otlier'i  ho»»g»j 


THB  devil's  91K  113 

to  each  it  was  the  exact  form  of  appreciation  which  most  closely  touched 
his  or  her  own  profoundest  vein  of  personal  vanity. 

At  the  hotel  door,  a  waiter  met  them  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

"  For  monsieur,"  he  said.  Harry  op^sned  it  and  glanced  through  it 
hastily.  It  gave  him  a  sudden  shock  of  surprise.  *'  Mrs.  Chichele 
has  sprained  her  ankle  badly.     Return  next  train.     Meet  us.     Ali," 

In  a  moment  he  had  forgotton  all  about  Seeta,  and  her  ideas  and 
experiences,  and  was  hurrying  back  at  full  speed  to  the  railway  station 
to  see  if  he  could  get  another  train  back  to  Agay  before  the  one  by 
which  Olwen  was  to  arrive  had  yet  started.  There  was  none,  however, 
and  he  was  forced  to  possess  his  soul  in  what  patience  he  might,  loung- 
ing about  in  the  hall  of  the  station  meanwhile,  till  Olwen's  train  should 
reach  Cannes. 

Ho' reproached  himself  very  bitterly  now  for  his  remissness  in  not 
having  waited  on  the  sumnxit  with  Olwen.  How  unkind  she  would 
think  him  ever  to  have  left  her  ;  how  much  more  unkind  not  to  have 
returned  to  her  after  the  accident.  If  only  he  had  stopped  for  her  at 
Agay  Station  even.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it  now.  What  was  done 
was  done.  A  little  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  had  risen  up 
between  himself  and  Olwen. 

When  the  train  arrived  he  helped  her  tenderly  home  to  the  hotel ; 
he  bandaged  and  bathed  the  sprained  limb  with  infinite  care  and  gentle- 
ness himself  ;  he  lavished  upon  her  every  attention  that  either  his 
medical  skill  or  his  personal  affectirn  could  possibly  suggest  to  him  ; 
but  all  the  time  he  felt  dimly  conscious  in  the  back-ground  of  his  mind 
of  the  cloud  that  had  risen  up  so  subtly  between  them.  Neither  said 
a  word  about  it.  Olwen  certainly  never  dreamt  of  reproaching  him  , 
she  was  too  deeply  hurt  in  her  own  soul  to  think  of  reproaches.  She 
only  murmured  many  times  over,  "  I  did  so  wish  you'd  been  with  me, 
Harry. "  A.nd  Harry  without  attempting  to  apologize  or  excuse  him- 
self, answered  in  the  same  simple  direct  manner,  "  I  wish  I  had  been, 
darling  ;  I  do  most  earnestly  wish  I  had  been." 

The  Riviera  is  always  beautiful,  always  bright,  always  delightful,  al- 
ways sunshiny ;  but  for  the  remainder  of  Olwen  Chichele's  stay  at 
Cannes  it  was  clouded  over  in  her  eyes  by  that  little  cloud,  no  bigger 
at  first  than  a  man's  hand,  but  gradually  growing  and  spreading  and 
thickening,  till  at  last  it  covered  with  its  skirts  her  whole  private 
mental  horizon,  and  darkened  for  her  all  that  lovely  prospect,  from  the 
rocks  of  St.  Tropez  to  the  palm  groves  of  Bordighera.  To  begin  with, 
her  sprain  confined  her  for  the  most  part  to  the  hotel ;  and  although 
Harry  had  her  moved  to  a  room  on  the  ground  floor,  which  opened  out 
by  French  windows  on  to  the  garden  terrace  where  she  could  look 
across  to  the  sea  and  the  islands,  still  it  was  woary  lying  there  on  the 
sofa  all  day  and  gazing  out  even  on  that  exquisite  prospect  of  trees  and 
water.  Harry  wheeled  the  sofa  on  to  the  terrace  at  times,  and  Ivan 
and  Ali  hovered  about,  ever  eager  and  watchful  to  do  her  bidding  ;  but 
at  the  very  moment  when  the  sun  was  brightest,  and  the  birds  were 
singing  their  blitheat  among  the  laden  oleanders,  Seeta  Mayne  would 
Itroll  casually  ftcroM  tlk§  gardens  towards  them, book  in  hand  &n4  fin£«f 


114  TBI  diyil's  Dn. 

in  page,  and  in  a  trice  the  cloud  would  would  rise  up  as  if  by  maglo 
once  more,  and  cover  the  heavens  from  side  to  side  with  its  thick  pall 
of  outer  darkness.  It  was  very  wrong  of  her,  Olwen  said  to  herself ; 
and  yet,  with  a  woman's  instinct,  she  could  not  help  it  She  scented 
danger  afar  off  on  the  breezes  long  before  either  Seeta  or  Harry  him- 
self had  the  faintest  suspicion  of  its  possible  presence. 

Then  again,  Harry  could  not,  of  course,  be  always  by  her  side.     He 
was  very  good  to  her,  very  constant,  very  gentle,  very  attentive  :  but 
she  couldn't  bear  to  spoil  his  hard-earned  holiday  for  him,  and  she  in- 
sisted at  times  that  he  should  certainly  leave  her  and  go  for  walks  with 
the  other  men  among  the  hills  and  mountains.  On  such  occasions  Seeta 
sometimes  stopped  at  home  and  kept  her  company  ;  but  sometimes,  on 
the  other  hand,  she  went  with  Harry  and  her  cousin — or,  rather,  they 
all  four  started  together,  to  find  themselves  paired  off  by  natural  selec- 
tion into  couples  before  long,  the  first  couple  being  always  Harry  and 
Seeta,  while  the  second  waa  Ivan  and  Mohammad  Ali.     Olwen  hardly 
knew  which  of  the  two  alternatives  she  disliked  the  most ;  for,  when 
Seeta  Mayne  stopped  at  home,  she  often  talked  to  poor  bewildered 
Olwen  wholly  above  her  head,  vague  rhapsodies  about  life  and  love,  or 
else  profound  philosophical  discussions  :  and  when  she  went  out,  why, 
then,  of  course,  she  went  out  with  Harry.    And  the  bitterest  part  of  it 
all  was  that  even  Olwen  herself  could  not  help  admiring,  nay,  even  in 
some  strange  under-current  of  feeling  positively  liking  and  almost  lov- 
ing Seeta  Mayne.     A  very  little,  to  say  the  truth,  would  have  made 
Olwen  actually  worship  her  prospective  rival.     Seeta  was  so  beautiful, 
she  was  so  graceful,  she  was  so  clever,  she  was  so  interesting,  and  at 
times,  when  Olwen  was  in  pain  or  weary,  she  was  so  really  and  truly 
kind  and  sympathetic.     From  her  lofty  pedestal,  indeed,  she  condes- 
cended in  turn  to  like  and  admire  and  love  Olwen.     A  dear,  pretty, 
simple,  little  thing,  and  so  thoroughly  womanly,  too,  in  every  thought 
and  act  and  feeling  I    But  so  utterly  unsuited,  when  one  looked  at  it 
that  way,  to  a  man  of  Dr.  Ohichele's  mental  calibre  1 

As  for  Harry,  he  enjoyed  to  the  full  his  rambles  on  the  mountain 
slopes  with  Seeta.  She  knew  by  sight  every  rare  flower  on  the  Riviera, 
and  the  exact  spots  where  they  all  grew  ;  and  the  desire  to  show  them  to 
Harry  and  Ivan  gave  an  excuse  for  more  than  one  long  excursion  among 
the  hills  that  stretched  back  from  the  winter  city. 

How  they  rambled  and  talked  among  those  lovely  hills  ;  now  they 
gazed  entranced  over  sea  and  mountain ;  how  they  gathered  wild 
flowers  among  the  spurs  of  the  Esterel ;  how  they  discussed  the  govern- 
ment of  earth  and  heaven.  And  what  occupations  can  be  more  danger- 
ous to  the  slippery  and  unstable  human  heart  than  rambling  in  the  hills, 
looking  at  the  mountains,  talking  philosophy,  and  gatnering  wild  flowers 
with  a  beautiful  woman  ?  Scenery  and  poetry  are  very  closely  akin  to 
love  ;  the  talk  about  one  glides  off  imperceptibly  into  talk  about  the 
other,  and  lands  you,  whert  you  know  not,  before  you  have  even  s<* 
much  as  dreamt  of  it. 

Moreover,  Seeta  was  both  by  trade  and  by  nature  introspective  and 
analytic.     She  thought  aud  talked  mu9h  t^bout  the  people  with  whom 


TBI  devil's  DIB.  119 

■h«  was  conversing,  and  their  inmost  feelings  and  characteristica. 
Therefore  she  thought  and  talked  much  with  Harry  Chichele  about  their 
two  salves.  To  talk  about  your  two  selves  is  always  fascinating,  and 
always  interesting  ;  it  allows  so  much  scope  for  subtle  flattery  and 
delicato  egotism  :  but  it  is  also  always  perilous  and  always  compli> 
eating  ;  it  leads  you  for  ever  on  thin  ice,  over  which  to  glide  lightly 
and  gracefully,  is  in  itself  a  delicious  exercise  of  supreme  skill.  Harry 
and  Sedta  enjoyed  that  dangerous  amusement  together  to  the  full ; 
they  saturated  themselves  with  mutual  self-analysis  ;  they  frankly  dis- 
cussed  their  own  two  personalities  ;  they  laid  themselves  bare  with 
perfect  freedom  before  one  another's  scrutinizing  and  admiring  gaze. 
They  intoxicated  themselves  with  the  joy  of  dissecting  their  own  inmosl 
and  profoundest  nature. 

It  is  always  delightful  to  t^!k  about  one's  self  to  a  uympathetio  lii- 
tener,  especially  when  that  listener  is  a  beautiful  woman. 

"  I've  enjoyed  these  walks  immensely,  Dr.  Chichele,"  Seeta  said  on* 
day  with  a  quiet  sigh,  as  Harry's  holiday  was  drawing  at  last  to  its  cloa*. 
•'  They  have  been  for  me  a  new  sensation.  I  live  so  much  out  of  the 
world  of  thought.  I  mix  for  the  most  part  only  with  the  commonplace. 
To  meet  with  minds  fresh  from  the  centre  of  things — cells  in  the  very 
growing-point  of  science,  as  it  were— has  given  me  a  delightful  and 
novel  interest  in  life,  and  the  friendship  we  have  formed  in  these  few 
weeks  at  Cannes  will  last  us  out  in  future,  I  hope,  for  a  whole  life" 
time." 

Harry  Chichele  looked  down  at  her  with  profound  admiration.  **  I 
can  see  now,"  he  said,  *'  who  wrote  '  The  Price  of  Wisdom,'  and  how 
she  gained  the  knowledge  to  write  it.  What  a  wonderful  insight  into 
our  minds  you  possess.  You  read  human  hearts  like  an  open  book, 
Miss  Mayne." 

Seeta  smiled  again.  *'  Every  man  to  his  trade,"  she  answered 
Ughtly.  '*  It  i:  no  sin,  as  Falstaff  says,  to  labour  in  '"'^«'s  vocation. 
My  vocation  is  to  probe  and  search  out  the  hidden  nooi:>  and  crannies 
of  the  heart  of  man.  I  paint  the  human  soul  as  Ivan  Royle  paints  a 
landscape — in  minute  detail,  as  the  result  of  patient  care  and  study." 

*'And  you've  studied  mine  now,  I  suppose,  and  done  with  it  for 
ever,"  Harry  cried,  half  regretfully.  *'  You've  taken  stock  of  your 
model  and  got  to  the  very  bottom  of  its  small  nature.  You'll  throw  me 
away  next  like  a  sucked  orange." 

**  That  would  argue  very  bad  art  indeed,"  Seeta  answered  with  » 
grave  face  "  To  the  true  artist,  no  study  on  earth  is  ever  quite  com- 
plete or  final.  Have  you  or  your  fellows  yet  finished  knowing  all  about 
the  mere  bodily  structure  and  functions  of  man — his  earthly  mechanism 
— his  anatomy  and  physiology — his  wheels,  and  cranks,  and  works,  and 
mainsprings  ?  Do  you  know,  right  through,  his  heart,  and  his  lungi^ 
and  his  brain,  and  his  muscles  ?  No,  nor  ever  will  either.  And  how 
infinitely  more  varied  and  diverse  and  unknowable  are  the  tunes  we 
can  get  out  of  a  human  soul — an  organ  of  many  pipes,  with  endless 
stops  and  variants  and  diapasons — the  outcome  of  a  million  years  of 
•volution."    Her  Toioe  fell  a  moment  to  a  lower  koj.     **  My  slndy  i» 


116  THB   DBTIL'b  DIB. 

only  just  begun,"  ihe  said  softly.     •'  We  shall  meet  again,  I  hopd. 

Elsewhere.     Often." 

"Thank  you,"  Harry  replied,  with  a  deep  thrill,  and  said  no  more. 
They  walked  along  some  minutes  together  in  ailenoe.  Silence  is  tk« 
most  eloquent  of  human  voices.  Nothing  on  earth  can  say  so  much. 
It  speaks  the  heart  in  its  most  unutterable  moods  and  symphonies. 

During  the  last  week  of  their  stay  at  Cannes,  01  wen  was  so  Urn 
recovered  that  she  could  drive  out  in  an  open  carriage,  and  Harry  and 
Seeta  generally  drove  out  with  her,  Ivan  and  All  walking  in  the  sams 
direction,  and  meeting  them  by  appointment  at  their  journey's  end. 
Olwen  really  enjoyed  these  drives  immensely,  along  the  sweeping  ourv« 
of  coast  to  the  roadstead  at  Golfe  Jouan,  or  by  the  rocky  dells,  starred 
with  purple  and  scarlet  anemones,  to  the  beautiful  potteries  at  deep- 
throated  Yallauris.  It  was  so  delightful  to  go  out  with  Seeta.  Seeta 
talked  to  her  charmingly  now.  Olwen,  too,  was  numbered  among  her 
victims.  The  first  flush  of  the  younger  woman's  terror  at  the  great 
novelist's  cleverness  and  superciliousness  had  begun  to  wear  off,  and 
Olwen  almost  ventured  to  chat  and  gossip  naturally  at  last  with  her 
alarming  acquaintance  about  the  usual  nothings  of  feminine  conversa- 
tion. Seeta  was  trying  hard  to  win  her  heart,  and  when  Seeta  Mayne 
found  it  worth  her  while  to  take  that  easy  trouble  with  anybody  on 
earth,  the  somebody,  as  a  rule,  fell  a  willing  prey  to  the  graceful 
woman's  gracious  condescension.  The  famous  novelist  had  come  down 
off  her  pedestal,  in  fact — at  least  as  far  as  Olwen  was  concerned — and 
was  doing  her  best  to  be  charming  and  agreeable.  Seeta's  best  waa 
good  indeed  ;  and  Olwen  felt  herself  flattered  and  pleased  accordingly. 
They  got  on  famously  together  now.  Olwen  was  almost  in  love  with 
Seeta. 

Besides,  next  week  it  would  all  be  over,  and  she  would  hare  Harrj 
•very  bit  to  herself  again  at  home  in  Hampstead. 

That  thought  in  itself  nerved  her  up  and  delighted  her.  The  cloud 
after  all  was  but  a  passing  shadow.  Seeta  had  come  and  Seeta  would 
go  again  ;  but  she  herself,  Olwen,  like  the  open  blue  sky,  at  the  back 
of  it  all,  remained  for  ever  in  Harry's  heart  as  permanent  background 
of  married  happiness. 

So  it  is  in  every  true  man's  heart.  So  it  would  be  Olwen  felt,  in  her 
own  with  Harry.  So  it  must  be,  therefore,  she  argued,  for  her  in 
Harry's. 

They  were  driving  along  on  their  laat  whole  day  at  Cannes  by  th« 
beautiful  water-side  road  among  the  great  umbrella  pines  in  the  Frejua 
direction.  It  was  a  glorious  day.  The  simshine  overhead  waa  bright 
and  unbroken  ;  the  sunshine  within  was  growing  clear  and  cloudleas 
again. 

"And  so  to-morrow  we  shall  leave  dear  old  Cannes  behind  forever," 
Olwen  said  with  a  sigh,  as  she  turned  to  Seeta.  She  really  loved  tha 
place  to-day.  it  was  so  bright  and  gay  and  calm  and  beautiful.  "And 
you  '^oo,  Miss  Mayne  !  We  shall  have  to  leave  yoa.  Whoa  shall  we 
■ee  you  again,  I  wonder  I  ** 


VMB  DSTIL'8  DIl.  117 

"  In  April,"  Seeta  answered,  locking  up  »t  her  luddenly.  •*  In 
London.  I  shall  bo  there  with  the  tulips  and  the  swallows.  I  mean 
henceforth  to  come  to  England  every  year  for  the  summer." 

Olwen  glanced  at  her  sideways,  half  in  doubt,  as  she  leaned  back 
uneasily  on  the  cushions  of  the  carriage.  *' I  thought,"  she  cried, 
with  a  vague  surmise  of  breakers  ahead,  '*  you  never  cared  for  London 
•ociety." 

*'  I  did  not,"  Seeta  answered,  with  a  stately  inclination  of  her  proud 
head  ;  *' that  id  to  say,  I  did  not,  till  recently.  I've  now  found  out 
new  interests  in  London,  It  means  to  me  * .  t^  than  it  meant  of  old. 
I  shall  come  to  England  frequently  in  future.  England  is  nearer  and 
dearer  to  me  to-day  than  it  ever  was  in  all  my  life  before." 

•*  Why  ? "  Olwen  asked,  with  an  uncomfortable  glance. 

*' My  dear  little  woman,  how  can  you  ask  me  why?"  Seeta  echoed 
good-humouredly,  ' '  While  you  are  in  London,  how  can  my  heart  keep 
long  away  from  it  ?  Where  your  treasure  is,  there  will  your  heart  be 
also.  I  have  found  new  treasures  in  England,  new  friends  who  will 
always  be  very,  very  dear  to  me." 

She  smiled  at  Olwen  so  sweet  and  so  genuine  a  smile  of  affection  as 
■ho  spoke  that  Olwen  almost  tried  to  conceal  from  herself  the  chagrin 
and  disappointment  with  which  she  received  this  flattering  avowal  of 
eternal  friendship. 


CHAPTER  XXIL  .     ^ 

Fkbruary,  March,  and  half  April  passed  pleasantly  and  easily 
enough  in  L(»ndon  with  Olwen  Chichele.  Ivan  Royle  and  Mohammad 
Ali  were  both  in  town,  and  both  were,  as  always,  her  obedient  servants, 
for  ever  ready  to  do  her  bidding  gladly.  Harry  had  forgotten  all  about 
Seeta  Mnyne— for  the  present  at  leost — and  was  assiduous  in  taking 
his  pretty  little  wife  about  everywhere  and  ^showing  her  everything. 
Olwen  had  become  a  recownized  feature  in  scientific  society  by  this 
time.  Everybody  liked  the  charming  little  woman  whose  head  had 
not  been  turned  by  society's  admiration,  and  who  was  such  a  capital 
foil  in  a  drawing-room,  you  know,  to  all  those  stiff  old  professors,  and 
philosophical  theory-monf^ers,  and  cultivated  Girton  girls  of  the  modem 
pattern. 

Towards  the  end  of  April,  however,  as  Harry  and  she  were  driving 
one  <iay  U)<(et  lier  in  the  park,  they  stopped  the  carriage»for  a  while  to 
get  out  and  walk  down  the  flowery  sidepaths  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
then  in  their  first  fresh  flush  of  springtide  glory.  It  was  a  sunny  after- 
noon, and  the  shrubs  and  flowers  were  looking  their  best,  as  London 
■hrubs  and  flowers  always  do  in  warm,  bright,  showery  April  weather. 
Spring  was  early  tliat  year.  The  lilacs  were  already  just  bursting  into 
their  trusses  of  bloom,  and  the  laburnums  were  beginning  to  displaj 
Hit  eoming  promise  of  their  golden  glory  on  the  dropping  branohei. 


.Vi&d 


118  THB  DITIL'S  DIl. 

Olwen's  heart  was  away  in  Cornwall.  She  sat  down  on  one  of  di« 
retired  benches  in  the  broad  sunlight,  and  watched  the  bickering  spar- 
rows among  the  border  opposite,  playing  after  their  kind  with  the  last 
manglod  remains  of  the  dog's-tooth  violet  bulbs  beneath  the  shade  of 
the  laurestinus  bushes. 

Suddenly  a  musical  voice  burst  upon  her  ear.  It  uttered  aloud  six 
lines  of  Browning's  : — 

"  Oh  1  to  be  in  England,  now  that  April's  there  I 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morning,  unaware^ 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm  tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough, 
In  England— now  1 " 

How  strangely  complex  is  the  heart  of  man — and  woman  I  Olwen 
looked  up  with  a  thrill  of  positive  pleasure  running  through  her  wildly 
from  head  to  foot  to  see  Seeta  Mayne  standing  once  more,  tall  and 
graceful  and  beautiful  as  ever,  there  before  them. 

Seeta  was  dressed  as  enchantingly  as  she  always  was — in  an  artistia 
oostume,  with  luose  cape  and  hat  to  match,  in  some  soft  neutral-tinted 
oriental  material  that  exactly  suited  her  rare  and  delicate  type  of 
beauty.  She  took  Olwen's  two  hands  affectionately  in  hers,  and,  bend* 
ing  forward,  kissed  her  thrice,  continental  fashion,  once  on  each  oheek, 
and  once  on  her  full  rich  red  Cornish  lips,  with  genuine  warmUi  and 
tenderness  of  expression.  Then  she  held  out  one  hand  frankly  to 
Harry,  with  a  delicious  smile,  and  took  her  seat  beside  them,  like  a 
friend,  on  the  bench,  "Only  this  morning,"  she  said  quickly,  antici- 
|»ating  the  question  that  rose  unspoken  on  both  their  lips.     "  I  know 

fou're  going  to  ask  me,  of  course,  when  and  how  I  arrived  in  London, 
came  straight  through  by  the  night  express.  Yesterday  morning  at 
Cannes,  seeing  the  white  dust  swirling  on  the  roads  before  an  angry 
mistral,  1  said  over  those  lines  of  Browning's  to  myself.  I  thought 
of  the  luscious  green  English  hedgerows,  with  their  tender  verdure  just 

fuehing  out  in  tiny  rosettes  from  every  bud  upon  the  naked  branches, 
thought  of  the  daffodils,  and  the  lilacs,  and  the  horse-chestnuts.  I 
thought  of  the  skylarks,  and  the  cuckoos,  and  the  swallows.  And  I 
thought  of  two  dear  hearts  over  here  in  London,  whose  pulse  beata 
henceforth  for  ever  and  ever  in  unison  with  mine."  She  took  Olweu's 
hand  in  hers,  caressing  it  gently  as  she  spoke.  *' And  I  said  to  myself, 
*  I,  too,  must  go.  I  must  look  upon  those  two  bright  faces  a^^ain.  I 
must  follow  the  swallows  over  sea  to  England.  For  it's  well  to  be  in 
England  now  that  April's  there.'  So  I  packed  up  my  traps  at  once 
and  came  across  ;  and  I  took  myself  rooms  down  yonder  in  Kensington  ; 
and  this  afternoon,  tempted  out  by  the  sunshine,  all  weary  as  I  wm,  I 
•tarted  off  to  walk  in  Kensington  Gardens  here,  after  writing  you  a 
note,  dear  Mrs.  Ohichele,  to  tell  you  where  you  might  expect  to  find 
me  ;  and  the  very  first  thing,  as  I  turn  in  at  he  big  garden  gate,  who 
■hould  I  see  but  just  the  two  dear  faces  on  whose  account  1  E»t«  Tta* 


THE  DBYIL's  DII.  119 

fcured  once  more  to  confront  in  her  den  ray  old  enemy — the  inexorable, 
the  ineflfable,  the  terrific  Mrs.  Grundy." 

Olwen  smiled  and  nestled  her  hand  tenderly  in  Seeta's.  How  on 
earth  could  she  ever  have  been  so  unjust  and  so  blind  as  to  dream  of 
distrusting  her,  that  dear,  kind,  gracious,  sisterly  woman  ?  She  fondled 
Seeta's  hand  with  her  own,  twice  over,  and  Seeta  returned  the  caress, 
caressingly.  Olwen  was  very,  very  happy.  She  had  fairly  dreaded 
Seeta  Mayne's  return  ;  and  now  that  Seeta  had  actually  come,  why, 
■he  felt  as  though  she  had  recovered  her  dearest  sister. 

*'  You  must  come  back  with  us  in  the  carriage  to  tea  at  Hampstead," 
Olwen  cried,  delighted.  "  We  can't  do  without  you."  Seeta  nodded 
a  pleased  assent.  "And  you  mustn't  think  of  stopping  down  in  Ken- 
sington, either.  You  must  take  rooms  quite,  quite  close  to  us  :  or, 
Harry,  don't  you  think  Miss  Mayne  might  perhaps  be  persuaded  to 
come  and  stay  with  us  in  our  own  place,  dear  ?  " 

"Why  'Miss  Mayne'?  Why  not  Seeta?"  the  beautiful  woman 
asked,  melodiously. 

Olwen  raised  her  eyes  in  delight.  At  that  moment  she  could  posi- 
tively have  died  for  the  lovely  creature.  She  felt  so  pleased  and  proud 
and  flattered  that  that  great,  clever,  queenly  woman  should  ever  dream 
of  letting  her  call  her  Seeta.  Six  months  before  she  would  have 
thought  it  impossible. 

They  drove  back  to  Hampstead  together,  where  Seeta  sat  long  and 
talked  much  to  both  of  them,  and  not  as  she  had  often  been  wont  to  do 
in  the  past,  to  Harry  only.  She  talked  at  her  most  lovable  as  well  as 
at  her  best ;  and  when  Seeta  chose  she  could  be  very  lovable — no  woman 
more  so.  For  she  had  that  tmie  characteristic  of  genius,  that  she  knew 
to  the  full  every  possible  mood  and  tone  of  humanity  ;  no  single 
phase  of  feeling  was  wholly  alien  to  her.  Olwen  sat  and  listened  and 
loved  her  ;  and  when  she  had  gone,  she  sighed  a  quiet  sigh  of  profound 
regret.  "  Dear  Seeta  1  "  she  said,  turning  sadly  to  Harry,  **  how  I  do 
wish  she  would  only  have  come  here  and  stopped  with  us,  as  I  wanted 
her."  ^^ 

"I don't  know  that  that  would  be  quite  a  wise  arrangement,"  Harry 
answered,  inspecting  his  boots  with  nervous  attention,  and  keeping  his 
eyes  rigidly  averted  from  01  wen's.  '*  At  the  lodgings  over  yonder  she'll 
be  quite  near  enougii,  I  dare  say.  We  mustn't  exactly  fling  ourselves 
at  her  head,  you  know,  just  because  she  happens  to  be  a  favourite  of 
society  and  a  successful  novelist  of  the  passing  moment." 

'•  Oh,  Harry,  how  can  you  ?  It  isn't  that.  You  know  it  isn't  that. 
I  couldn't  bear  her  to  hear  you  say  so.  She's  such  a  dear,  sweet,  sym- 
pathetic old  thing.  Did  you  see  the  way  she  clung  to  my  hand,  and 
smoothed  it,  and  fondled  ine  exactly  like  a  sister  ?  I  just  love  Seeta  I 
1  wish  she  could  come  and  live  with  us  for  ever  and  ever." 

*'  You  wouldn't  like  it  in  the  end,"  Harry  answered  wisely.  "  Two's 
harmony,  three's  a  discord." 

Next  morning,  Seeta  came  up  early,  and  Olwen  went  round  with  her 
to  inspect  the  lodgings  close  by.  The  result  of  their  joint  investigation 
proving  <^uile  satisfactory,  it  was  arranged  that  SeeU  should  move  in 


120  THE  DRTIL'S  Ml. 

on  fche  next  Saturday,  as  soon  as  her  week  was  up  at  the  rooms  In 

Kensington. 

For  two  or  three  months  from  that  time,  all  through  the  thick  of  the 
London  season,  the  Chicheles  saw  much  of  Seeta  Mayne.  She  was 
seldom  a  whole  day  without  calling  to  visit  them.  Gradually,  Olwen's 
first  dislike  wore  away  entirely,  and  Seeta  grew  to  be  very  dear  to  her. 

One  evening  towards  the  end  of  June  they  went  for  a  walk  on  the 
heath  together.  Ivan  Royle  was  included  in  the  party,  and  he  loitered 
a  little  way  behind  with  Olwen.  Seeta,  who  stepped  with  a  prouder 
and  a  quicker  tread,  walked  on  in  front  with  Harry  Chichele.  They 
were  talking  together  of  a  new  discovery  Harry  had  just  published. 
As  they  reached  the  ridge  that  looks  across  the  heath  to  Highgate 
and  Harrow,  Seeta  turned  her  head  round  and  glanced  behind  her. 
"  Olwen's  not  coming  on  very  quick,"  she  said  musingly  "  Dr.  Chi- 
iijhele,  you've  made  a  great  many  discoveries,  but  I  think  your  greatest 
was  your  discovery  of  that  sweet  little  creature,  Olwen." 

Harry  lauij;hed  uneasily.  ''She's  a  good  little  woman,"  he  said  witk 
a  half-depreciatory  wave  of  his  graceful  white  hand.  "  I'm  certainly 
proud  of  her,  all  things  considered.  1  found  her,  as  you  know,  in  a 
little  out-of-the  way  Cornish  village.  She  was  quite  the  '  gem  of  purest 
ray  unseen  '  that  only  a  very  stray  pnPFspr-by  was  ever  at  all  likely  to 
hit  upon.  I  happened  to  be  the  lucky  passer-by — that's  all.  And  so  I 
married  her.  But  I  often  wonder  how  it  is  that  some  othor  women — 
beautiful,  clever,  profound,  attractive  ;  living  in  the  world,  admired 
and  eourted  ;  women  that  to  look  upon  is,  if  not  to  love,  at  least  to 
worship  ;  queens  of  society,  meant  to  shine  in  courts  and  great  gather- 
ings ;  should  sometimes  never  have  married  at  all.  Unless,  indeed, 
one  explains  it  by  the  very  obvious  answer  that  they  have  never  found 
anybody  anywhere  worthy  of  them." 

*'  Not  never?"  Seeta  Mayne  answered  slowly,  her  hot  breath  coming 
and  going  irregularly,  with  somewhat  heightened  quickness.  *'  Not 
never ;  but  perhaps  only  once  or  twice,  or  once  alone,  once  in  a  lifetime. 
The  more  a  woman  has  in  her,  surely,  the  harder  must  it  be  for  her 
ever  to  find  the  one  suitable  complement  and  counterpart  of  her  being,  to 
whom  alone  she  could  freely  surreiider,  for  ever  and  ever  her  whole 
individuality.  And  suppose — suppose  when  she  has  once  found  him 
she  finds  at  the  same  time  that  that  one  sole  possible  partner  of  her 
heart  and  soul — the  only  man  she  could  consent  to  accept,  has  linked 
himself  already  to — to  some  one  other  ?  " 

She  lo(«ked  at  him  close  with  eyes  full  of  meaning.  She  meant  him 
to  understand.  She  did  not  conceal  it.  They  two,  thus  talking  care- 
fully in  the  abstract,  under  the  shallow  disguise  of  general  forms,  knew 
perfectly  well  in  their  own  hearts  they  were  simply  talking  about  one 
another. 

Harry  paused  a  moment  before  he  replied.   **  That  must  be  a  terrible 
jnisfortune,"  he  said  at  last,  looking  hard  and  close  at  her. 

"  It  is  a  tragedy  1 "  Seeta  Mayne  answered  passionately. 

They  walked  on  a  minute  or  two  longer  in  silence.  Then  8e«ta  was 
^9  fi?it  to  speak  agi^ii).     '*  |t  U  »  tragCKly,"  she  repei^t^,  with  inftnitt 


mi  devil's  DiK.  121 

t«ndeniess,  '*  but  one  which  has  its  counterbalancing  compensationi 
also.  It  is  better  to  have  met  him,  even  in  vain^  that  one  sole  comple- 
ment of  one's  intellectual  and  physical  being,  than  never,  never  to 
have  met  him  at  all.  And,  if  one  has  once  really  met  him,  it  is  not  all  in 
vain  either.  Suppose  two  persons  in  the  position  we  are  imagining  ; 
then  if  they  can't  have  love,  is  it  not  at  least  a  great  thing  for  them 
that  they  can  fall  back  in  the  last  resort  uj.  n  anything  so  innocent  and 
beautiful  and  consoling  as  friendship." 

"  Miss  Mayne  1 "  Harry  cried,  holding  his  breath  hard,  "you  are  too 
terrible.  You  say  things  more  openly  than  I  dare  say  them  myself. 
Though  I  am  a  man,  you  frighten  me,  you  frighten  me  !  " 

"  Your  wife  calls  me  *  Seeta,'  "  the  beautiful  woman  said  calmly, 
turning  towards  him.  '*  Why  should  not  you  and  I — at  least  when 
alone — call  one  another  Seeta  and  Harry  also?  And  why  need  I 
frighten  you  ?  What  need  for  fear  ?  Surely,  surely,  there  is  nothing 
wrong,  nothing  dangerous  in  friendship  ? " 

''But,  Seeta,"  Harry  answered,  accepting  at  once  with  fervour  the 
proffered  liberty  of  calling  her  by  her  name,  "  if  you  knew  how  terri- 
bly you  make  me  feel  1  I  swear  to  you,  till  this  very  moment  I  never 
guessed  how  profoundly  and  earnestly  I— — " 

"  Stop  1 "  Seeta  cried,  laying  her  hand  imperiously  upon  his  arm  to 
check  him.  "  Don't  utter  that  word.  Don't  slip  it  out  for  one  second 
by  accident.  Let  it  never  so  much  as  be  mentioned  between  us.  Do 
you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  at  Cannes,  that  first  day  ?  '  You  and 
I  will  tread  the  mountain  heights  together?'  Well,  let  us  always 
move,  Harry,  in  that  same  high  and  pure  stratum  of  ethereal  feeling. 
Let  us  tread  the  mountain  heights  of  human  thought  and  human  sym- 
pathy hand  in  hand,  with  no  base  descent  into  those  lower  valleys 
where  Circe  and  her  troop  call  for  us  to  come  down  and  mingle  with 
them  coarsely  on  their  swinish  level.  Let  us  tread  them  together  in 
the  bond  of  friendship  ;  let  me  feel  towards  you  aa  I  feel  towards 
01  wen  ;  let  us  never  speak  of  one  another  or  to  one  another  in  other 
terms  than  those  pure  terms  of  the  higher  brotherhood.  Harry, 
you  are  very,  very,  very  dear  to  me.  Olwen  is  very,  very,  very  dear 
to  me.  Let  that  suffice  you,  as  it  suffices  me.  Let  the  other  word 
never  so  much  as  be  mentioned  between  us," 

Harry  pushed  back  his  hat  off  his  hot  forehead.  "  Seeta,"  he  cried, 
'     "  you  are,  indeed,  a  groat  woman.     I  wish  I  could  think  and  feel  as 

froxx  do.  What  a  grand,  lofty,  impersonal  path  you  seem  to  tread  through 
ife  1  And  what  you  say  is  true,  too.  One  has,  indeed,  a  single  pre- 
destined complement  of  one's  being.  How  wonderfully  you  interpret 
one's  inmost  feeling  1  How,  without  my  speaking,  you  have  read  my 
nature  through  and  through.     It  is  wonderful,  wonderful.     Whereas 

poor  dear  good  little  Olwen " 

"  Hush  1 "  Seeta  cried,  more  imperiously  than  before,  frowning  upon 

him  as  who  could  crush  him  with  her  frown.     "  Not  a  word  against 

that  sweet  little  trustful  angel  1     If  ever  you  dare  to  say  a  syllable  to 

\  \       me,  Harry  Chichele,  that  even  seems  for  a  moment  to  disparage  that 

beloved  friend  of  mine,  I  will  never  Again  in  my  Ufo  ipeak  to  you. 


1S2  TBI  DKVIL's  DIB. 

Remember  thatl  Olwen's  a  darling,  and  I  love  her  in  my  heart. 
You  shall  never  venture  to  utter  a  slighting  word  about  her  in  my 
hearing. 

Behind,  on  the  path  across  the  heath,  Olwen  Chichele  was  at  that 
very  moment  saying  to  Ivan  Royle,  '*  I  wonder,  Mr.  Royle,  why  on 
earth  your  cousin  has  never  married.  She  must,  of  course,  have  had 
many  chances." 

**  Chances  I "  Ivan  echoed.  *'  Chances  !  I  believe  you.  Why,  Mrs. 
Chichele,  she  came  down  to  Oxford  once  when  I  was  an  undergraduate, 
and  the  entire  university,  from  the  vice-chancellor  to  the  junior  fresh- 
man, was  at  her  feet  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight." 

*'  How  is  it,  then  1 "  Olwen  asked  curiously.  **  I  suppose  she  must 
be  either  very  proud  or  very  particular." 

**  I  think,"  Ivan  answered,  "  she  would  only  marry  if  she  happened 
to  hit  upon  the  one  exact  ideal  man  to  whom  she  felt  she  could  sur- 
render herself  utterly  with  a  perfect  surrender.  She  waits  and  chooses. 
She  isn't  anxious  to  marry.  Only  her  precise  mental  complement,  she 
says,  will  ever  suit  her,  and  she  means  it  when  she  says  it." 

"And  you  think,"  she  said,  *'  Seeta  has  never  yet  met  the  one  man 
■he  could  conceivably  marry  ? " 

Ivan  hesitated  for  half  a  second.  "Perhaps  not,"  he  answered 
evasively.  "I  can  hardly  say.  How  clear  the  hills  come  out  over 
yonder  1     We  seldom  get  a  day  like  this  in  London." 

*'  For  an  artist,  Mr.  Royle,  your  transition  was  singularly  inartistic." 

She  said  it  bitterly,  not  smilingly  ;  for  Ivan's  slight  pause  and  his 
qualified  answer,  as  well  as  the  clumsy  ineffective  way  in  which  he  had 
tried  to  break  the .  thread  of  the  conversation,  had  suddenly  let  into 
her  mind  a  fresh  doubt — a  terrible  doubt,  more  definite  than  of  old. 
Seeta  was  really  in  love  with  Harry  I 

She  looked  at  them  there  upon  the  summit  of  the  hill,  etched  out  in 
dark  against  the  western  sky-line,  and  the  thought  came  over  her  with 
intense  conviction  that  Ivan  was  thinking  that  very  moment  what  a 
romantic  picture  they  made  as  they  stood  side  by  side,  wrapped  in 
eager  converse  one  with  the  other,  like  a  pair  of  lovers. 

*'  You  would  like  to  paint  them  ? "  she  said,  coldly. 

And  Ivan,  feeling  concealment  useless — what  good  to  try  concealing 
anything  from  a  woman  ? — answered  the  honest  truth  with  a  bold  face, 
"  1  should  like  to  paint  them." 

"  And  all  the  world  would  say ,"  she  said. 

Ivan  looked  down  at  her,  alarmed  at  her  frankness.  '*  Tes,  all  the 
world  would  doubtless  say  so,"  he  answered  slowly.  "  Their  attitudes 
alone  are  quite  too  eloquent." 

Olwen  walked  on  some  steps  in  silence.  Then  she  began  once  more. 
"Seeta's  a  very  clever  and  remarkable  woman,"  she  said,  with  a  chilly 
accent 

Ivan  nodded.  "  And  Harry's  a  very  clever  and  remarkable  man," 
he  added. 

Olwen  clasped  her  hands  in  agony.     "  Mr.  RoyU  I    Mr.  Boyla  1   Is 


THK  devil's  DIB.  ISS 

h  reftlly  true  ?  Is  she — is  she  better  fitted  for  him,  better  adapted  to 
Harry,  than  I  am  ?  " 

Ivan  Royle  looked  at  her  again  with  profound  pity  in  his  tender 
brown  eyes.  For  the  time  being  something  irresistible  seemed  to  carry 
him  away.  The  best  of  men  have  their  moments  of  unrestrainable 
emotion.  He  lost  his  customary  self-control ;  he  allowed  himself  to 
blurt  out  the  obvious  truth  too  readily  and  irrevocably.  *'  Mrs.  Chi- 
chele,"  he  said,  *'  we've  all  four  of  us  made  a  grievous  mistake.  Harry 
is  better  fitted  for  Seeta  ;  Seeta  is  better  fitted  for  Harry  ;  and  you  and 
I — ^you  and  I — you  and  I — are  better  fitted  for  one  another. " 

Olwen  trembled  violently  all  over.  She  felt  a  terrible  tremulous 
sense  of  error  and  failure — something  like  what  she  had  felt  that  day 
two  years  before  in  the  garden  at  Polperran,  only  ten  thousand  times 
more  vivid  and  definite.  She  was  terrified  at  the  impassable  alley  into 
which  she  had  allowed  Ivan  so  blindly  to  lead  her.  And  Ivan,  for  his 
part,  seeing  one  moment  later  the  fatal  import  and  irrevocable  nature 
of  the  words  he  had  spoken,  stood  before  her,  penitent  and  ashamed, 
not  knowing  what  to  say  or  where  to  look,  but  mutely  with  his  eyes 
imploring  her  forgiveness.  She  could  not  be  angry  with  him  ;  it  was 
all  too  true  ;  but  she  shrank  appalled  and  terrified  herself  from  her 
own  wickedness  in  even  daring  to  perceive  it. 

"  Mr.  Royle,"  she  said  at  last,  with  fiery  energy,  "how  dare  you  say 
B0 1  You  have  no  right  at  all  to  speak  to  me  like  that.  I  oan't  stop 
with  you.     Take  me  on  at  once,  please,  to  my  husband." 

Without  a  word,  Ivan  led  her  on  with  downcast  eyes  to  where  Harry 
and  Seeta  stood  waiting  for  them  on  the  summit  of  the  heath.  His 
heart  was  very  heavy  within  him.  He  knew  he  had  sealed  the  doom  of 
their  friendship.     He  could  never  again  speak  to  Olwen. 

How  slight  a  passing  impulse  may  thus  wreck  the  purpose  of  a  life 
in  this  conventional  glozing  modem  world  of  ours  !  Olwen  and  Ivan, 
Seeta  and  Harry,  all  knew  it,  and  all  had  kept  silence.  If  they  had  all 
kept  silence  to  the  very  end,  they  might  have  acted  out  their  little 
parts  with  one  another  in  decorous  hypocrisy,  and  never  rendered  their 
mutual  intercourse  in  any  way  impossible.  But  once  to  have  openly 
admitted  that  fatal  truth,  which  all  four  of  them  had  begun  dimly  to 
suspect  in  their  own  minds,  was  to  make  the  game  henceforth  impraotio- 
able. 


CHAPTER  XXni. 

Next  morning,  Mohammad  Ali  called  early  at  the  Chicheles* ;  he 
had  an  engagement  to  walk  with  Olwen  on  the  Heath,  and  he  kept 
such  engagements  with  religious  devotion.  Olwen  was  fond  of  her 
black  friend  ;  she  got  on  with  him  better  than  with  any  Englishman. 
They  were  to  meet  Seeta  by  appointment  at  th*  Hit<h  Bench  bv  ten 
o'olook.     Punotiial  to  the  minute,  Seeta  was  there,  and  »  talli  UMid- 


1Z4  THl  DKTIL'8  DII. 

some  man,  in  a  frock  coat  and  glossy  hat,  sat  on  the  seat  beside  her. 
In  spite  of  his  heavy  black  moustache  and  bushy  beard,  the  delicate 
contour  of  his  handsome  features  seemed  so  perfectly  familiar  that 
Mohammad  Ali,  with  his  keen  eye,  felt  very  little  surprised  when 
Seeta,  rising  to  introduce  them,  said  abruptly,  *'01wen  dear,  my  brcther, 
Colonel  Mayne.  Arthur,  this  is  my  friend  Mrs.  Chichele  ;  and  my 
other  friend.  Dr.  Mohammad  Ali." 

Colonel  Mayne  bowed  respectfully  to  01  wen,  and  very  distantly,  as 
01  wen  observed,  to  Mohammad  Ali.  He  had  served  in  India,  and  dis- 
liked Baboos  ;  as  he  himself  remarked  afterwards  to  his  sister,  he  had 
seen  too  many  of  them.  That  any  difference  of  fibre  and  texture  could  ' 
possibly  exist  between  any  one  particular  Baboo  and  another  was  an 
idea  that  had  never  yet  entered  into  Colonel  Mayne's  simple  everyday 
Anglo-Indian  philosophy.  A  Baboo  was  a  Baboo,  as  a  sheep  was  a 
sheep,  and  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  about  it. 

After  a  minute  or  two  of  general  conversation,  the  party  resolved 
itself  into  two  couples,  as  such  parties  always  tend  to  do  ;  and  Seeta 
Mayne  found  herself  at  last  naturally  walking  with  Mohammad  Ali, 
while  Olwen  went  on  in  front  timidly  with  the  redoubtable  colonel. 

*'  Your  brother  has  been  in  India,  of  course,"  Mohammad  Ali  said, 
as  they  dropped  behind  into  the  second  station. 

**  Yes,  he's  just  returned  on  a  year's  leave.  He's  been  stationed  for 
some  time  at  a  place  called  Saharanpur,  I  believe.  But  why  'of 
course,'  I  wonder.  Dr.  Ali  ?  I  never  saw  an  old  Indian  in  my  life  who 
showed  so  little  the  sign-manual  of  the  tropics  in  his  face  and  figure  as 
my  brother  Arthur." 

"Quite  true,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered  quietly.  "I  judged  his 
oriental  experiences  entirely  by  the  very  distant  way  he  bowed  to  me. 
Englishmen  in  England  are  always  polite  to  us.  Only  Englishmen  who 
have  been  in  India  ever  attempt  to  treat  an  Indian  gentleman  with 
such  studied  chilliness." 

**  Arthur's  a  foolish  fellow,"  Seeta  replied  calmly.     '*  He  always  was 

and  he  always  will  be.     All  the  cleverness  in  our  family "  and  she 

checked  herself  suddenly. 

Mohammad  Ali  supplied  the  remainder  of  the  sentence.  "  Went  oflf 
into  the  women,  I  suppose,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  '*  I'm  not  at  all 
surprised  at  that,  for  they,  perhaps,  have  quite  too  much  of  it.  Miss 
Mayne,  I've  been  waiting  long  for  this  opportunity  to  speak  with  you 
alone.  I  have  a  question  I  very  much  wish  to  ask  you.  Are  you  act- 
ing kindly  to  Mrs.  Chichele  ?  " 

Seeta's  eyes  flashed  fire  at  the  unexpected  inquiry.  She  drew  her- 
self up  proudly  to  her  utmost  height.  "  I  don't  know  what  right  y(.u 
have  to  ask  me,"  she  cried  indignantly.  "  I  love  Olwen.  I  could  do 
nothing  on  earth  that  wasn't  kindness  and  goodness  itself  to  her." 

"You're  fond  of  her — yes,"  Mohammad  Ali  retorted  gently,  with 
persuasive  softness.  "  I  have  eyes  in  my  head.  1  see  that  much.  But 
ought  you  to  talk  as  much  as  you  do  with  Harry  Chichele  ?  Ought  you 
to  make  as  much  as  you  do  of  him  ?  I'm  a  black  man,  Miss  Mayne,  a 
privileged  person.     My  disabilities  have  their  countervailing  advan<^ 


THB  DKTILll   DIB.  lii 

Ages  too  ;  and  this  is  one  of  them.  I  may  speak  freely,  for  those  I 
esteem,  on  delicate  subjects,  where  others  dare  not.  Don't  you  think 
you  do  Mrs.  Chichele  a  grave  injustice  by  making  yourself  all  that  you 
hav  e  made  yourself  already  to  her  husband  ?  " 

Seeta's  delicately  chiselled  nostrils  dilated  and  quivered  as  sha 
answered  with  pride,  "You're  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  reproach 
me  with  that,  I  fancy,  Dr.  Ali ;  for  you're  in  love  yourself  with  Olwen 
Chichele." 

Mohammad  Ali  started  for  a  moment  in  intense  surprise.  The  tu  quo' 
que  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  that  it  fairly  took  his  breath  away, 
*'  You — you  have  no  reason  on  earth  to  say  so,"  he  replied  hastily. 
"  I've  said  or  done  nothing  at  all  to  lead  you  to  suspect  it." 

"And  do  you  think  a  woman  of  my  trade  needs  anything  said  or  done 
to  lead  her  to  read  a  man's  heart  like  an  open  book  ? "  Seeta  answered 
with  haughty  emphasis.  "  Do  you  think  I  can't  instinctively  perceive 
It  in  your  eyes,  in  your  looks,  in  your  attitudes,  in  your  motion  ?  Yoa 
must  take  me,  indeed,  for  a  poor  observer  1  Doctor  Ali,  I  knew  you 
were  in  love  with  Olwen  Chichele  the  very  first  day  I  heard  you  men- 
tion her  name  at  Cannes,  before  ever  I  saw  you  two  together.  The 
mere  long  lingering  cadence  of  your  voice  as  you  utter  those  sacred 
words,  '  Mrs.  Chichele,'  would  tell  any  one  with  a  pair  of  ears  in  their 
head  that  you  yourself  were  over  head  and  heels  in  love  with  their 
owner.     What  on  earth  is  the  use  of  your  pretending  to  deny  it  ?  " 

Mohammad  Ali  glanced  at  the  bold  handsome  face  in  momentary 
doubt.  He  hadn't  been  prepared  to  see  the  war  thus  vigorously  carried 
into  Africa.  He  debated  inwardly  with  himself  for  a  while  how  to 
meet  the  charge.  Then  he  spoke  slowly  in  a  calm,  resigned,  unaffected 
voice.  *'I  never  said  I  was  not  in  love  with  her.  I  am  in  love  with 
her.  I've  been  in  love  with  her  ever  since  I  first  saw  her.  I  shall 
always  be  in  love  with  her  as  long  as  I  live.  There,  now.  Miss  Mayne, 
will  that  satisfy  you  ?" 

Seeta  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Then,  why  in  heaven's  name,"  she  asked, 
turning  upon  him  with  a  half-maddened  look,  "  didn't  you  try  to  make 
her  marry  you  instead  of  Harry  Chichele  ?  You  had  the  chance,  you 
know,  in  Cornwall." 

**  Marry  me  /  "  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  passionately.  '*  Marry  m«, 
do  you  say  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  marry  a  white  woman  ?  No, 
^ot  for  the  very  love  I  bore  her.  Suppose  I  were  by  some  miracle  to 
succeed  in  making  her,  at  some  moment  of  emotion,  forget  my  colour 
— others  have  done  it,  and  therefore  I,  too,  might  conceivably  do  it — 
what  kind  of  life,  do  you  think,  could  I  ever  ofi'er  her '{  Would  she  be 
happy  with  me  in  England  ?  Would' she  be  happy  with  me  in  India  ? 
What  am  I,  do  you  suppose  ?  Who  am  1  ?  Wliat  place  in  society  could 
I  possibly  carve  out  for  her  ?  All  her  life  would  be  one  lifelong  struggle 
and  misery,  one  endless  fight  against  the  false  position  in  which,  by  my 
cruel  love,  I  had  placed  hor.  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  do  an  English 
lady  the  injustice  to  ask  her  to  lose  caste  by  marrying  me  ?  No,  no;  I 
must  walk  the  world  alone,  and  having  found  one  woman  I  can  truly 
love,  I  may  lov9  h^v  at  h  tiistaor.-  ujil.uut  fear  of  my  motives  being 


126  TBI  Dwrn/B  dib. 

misinterpreted,  even  by  those  who  have  the  deepest  interest  and  claW 
in  her.  So  you  see  our  cases  are  quite  different.  You,  with  your  beauty, 
and  your  fame  and  your  intellect,  are  a  menace  and  a  danger  for  ever 
to  Harry  ;  I  am  nothing  at  all,  and  less  than  nothing,  to  Olwen 
Chichele." 

He  paused  for  breath,  and  Seeta  looked  up  at  him  with  sudden  ad- 
miration. *' Mohammad  Ali,"  she  said  quietly,  "you're  a  grand  man. 
If  only  you  were  a  white  man,  1  think  I  could  love  you." 

Mohammad  Ali  smiled  and  showed  his  even  rows  of  pearl-white  teeth- 
*'I  will  not  pretend  to  return  the  doubtful  compliment,"  he  answered 
sardonically.  "  But  observe  that  only  the  fact  of  my  being  a  blaci 
man  would  ever  allow  you  to  speak  to  me  now  so  freely.  That  show* 
the  profundity  of  the  gulf  between  us,  doesn't  it  ?  That  shows  how 
little  our  cases  are  parallel — mine  with  Mrs.  Chichele,  and  yours  with 
her  husband." 

Seeta  Mayne  reflected  for  a  minute.  *'  Mohammad  Ali,"  she  said 
again,  dropping  the  customary  handle  to  his  name,  and  speaking  with 
her  occasional  high-flown  solemnity,  "  listen  now  to  me  in  turn.  I'm 
a  friend  of  Olwen's  ;  I'm  a  friend  of  Harry  Chichele's.  That's  all. 
Don't  try  to  make  it  out  anything  deeper.  Do  you  think  the  human 
heart  must  always  move  along  these  shallow  grooves  of  low  self-interest 
«nd  earthly  affection  ?  No,  no,  you  don't ;  for  your  own  heart  doesn't 
io  move  in  your  relations  towards  Olwen.  In  all  you  said  just  now, 
believe  me,  you  have  my  profoundest  and  eincerest  sympathy.  Why  ? 
Because  I  too  can  feel  with  you.  Mohammad  Ali,  1  understand  you: 
do  m»  the  honour  to  understand  me  in  return.  I  recognize  the  unself- 
ishnePB  and  purity  of  your  motives  :  do  me  the  justice  to  recognize  the 
true  nature  of  mine.  I  feel  for  Harry  Chichele,  I  tell  you  truthfully, 
nothing  but  an  exalted  and  intellectual  friendship,  tempered  by  a  deep 
and  lasting  personal  regard." 

*'  You  feel,"  Mohammad  Ali  repeated  eagerly.  "Ah,  yes,  you  feel 
BO.  1  never  doubted  it.  I'm  not  so  poor  a  judge  of  humanity  as  to 
giv«  you  credit  for  any  but  the  highest,  the  purest,  the  most  idealized 
motives.  You  think  to  yourself  that  Harry's  a  delightful  and  philoso- 
phically-minded companion — a  man  in  whose  conversation  and  inter- 
change of  thought  you  take  a  calm,  deep,  and  noble  pleasure— a  person 
fitted  by  intellect  and  disposition  to  be  a  friend  and  adviser  to  such  a 
remarkable  woman  as  you  are  ;  and  you  say  in  your  own  mind  that 
with  such  a  woman  as  you,  no  shadow  of  harm  can  ever  arise  from  your 
ideal  friendship.  Miss  Mayne,  I'm  not  a  fool.  I  see  at  once  that  so 
far  as  you  yourself  are  concerned,  you're  perfectly  right ;  that  you  can 
go  on  feeling  always  towards  Harry  Chichele  a  purely  sisterly  admira- 
tion and  affection.  But  how  is  it  that  you — you,  Seeta  Mayne,  the 
distinguished  novelist,  whose  books  are  so  full  of  character-study  and 
analysis —you,  who  trace  in  intinite  diversity  the  profound  influence  of 
character  on  character,  and  the  intricate  reaction  of  circumstance  on 
circumstance — how  is  it  that  you,  such  as  you  are,  who  in  any  other 
case  would  ta,ke  in  at  a  glance  all  the  actors  in  the  drama  and  all  their 
Bevoral  diverse  personalities,  have  here  confined  your  view  ontir«ly  to 


THi  deyil'i  dii.  1^7 

your  own  part,  your  own  cue,  your  own  motives,  and  your  own  isolated 
figure  in  the  total  working  ?  How  comes  it  that  you've  left  out  of  con- 
sideration the  effects  of  your  action  upon  Harry  and  upon  Mrs.  Chi- 
chele  ?  I  say  to  you,  '  You  are  leading  astray  that  mail's  aflfections,' 
and  you  answer  me  back,  '  1  feel  for  him  onl}  the  purest  and  most 
sisterly  friendship.'  I  say  to  you,  'You  are  blighting  that  woman'i 
happiness,'  and  you  answer  me  back,  '  I  am  doing  it  from  the  highest 
and  most  exalted  motives.'  Need  I  tell  you  that  you  can't  so  isolate 
yourself  from  all  your  surroundings.  You're  intoxicating  Harry  Chi- 
chele's  mind,  "i  ou're  poisoning  Olwen  Chichele's  future.  You  don't 
mean  it.  I  know  you  don't  mean  it.  You  do  it  all  with  the  best  of 
motives.  But,  thank  God,  I'm  a  black  man  ;  that  gives  me  the  right  to 
speak  to  you  so.  K  I  was  a  white  man  I  wouldn't  ever  dare  to  do  it. 
Have  pity  upon  her  1     Spare  her  1     Spare  her  I " 

Seela's  face  was  flushed  beyond  its  wont,  but  she  was  not  angry.  She 
listened  to  Mohammad  All's  earnest  pleading  with  profound  attention, 
and  not  a  little  twinge  of  remorse.  When  he  had  finished,  she  looked 
up  at  him  in  proud  compliance,  and  uttered  only  the  words,  '*  Thank 
you." 

•'  Then  you'll  think  of  what  I  say  ?  You'll  remember  this  other  side 
of  the  question  ? "  Mohammad  Ali  cried  eagerly.  *'  You'll  try  to  save 
Mrs.  Chichele  from  further  trouble  ? " 

"  If  I  ever  thought  I  was  going  to  cause  that  sweet  little  friend  ol 
mine  a  single  moment's  reasonable  uneasiness,"  Seeta  Mayne  answei  ed, 
with  profound  and  heartfelt  earnestness,  "  I'd  go  back  to  my  rooms 
this  very  instant,  and  take  a  pistol  and  blow  my  brains  out  in 
expiation." 

"  Seeta  Mayne,"  Mohammad  Ali  replied,  with  a  fervid  obeisance  of 
oriental  gratitude  ;  **you  are  a  strange  woman,  but  I  honestly  believe 
at  heart  a  good  one.  I  thought  well  of  you  before ;  I  think  bettor  of 
you  now  than  ever." 

For  ten  minutes  they  said  no  more.  Seeta  was  busy  trying  in  her 
own  mind  to  realize  the  matter  in  this  new  aspect.  "Do  you  think, 
Doctor  Ali,"  she  said  at  last,  "  01  wen  herself  thinks  hardly  of  me." 

"Mrs.  Chichele  is  an  angel,"  Ali  answered  softly.  "  She  thinks  hardly 
of  no  one.  But  I  feel  sure  she  sometimes  feels  hurt  and  pained  at 
Harry's  evident  preference  for  your  society." 

'  *  She  shall  never  feel  so  again,"  Seeta  replied,  with  a  sudden  outburst 
of  emotion.  "Mohammad  Ali,  I  owe  you  a  thousand  thanks— and  a 
bitter  grudge  for  this,  too.  It  will  cost  me  more  to  let  that  friendship 
for  Harry  Chichele  smoulder  slowly  out — for  I  can't  break  it  off,  I  can't 
break  it  off  suddenly — than  it  ever  cost  me  to  do  anything  else  in  this 
whole  miserable  ineffective  life  of  mine.  But  it  shall  smoulder  out ; 
you  have  my  word  for  it.  You've  darkened  my  life  to-day  with  a  total 
eclipse  ;  for  you  don't  know  how  much  that  friendship  has  grown  to  be 
to  me.     But  I  forgive  you — I  forgive  you. 

"  Seeta  Mayne,  Mohammad  Ali  murmured  half  inaudibly,  "  you're 
a  good  woman,  but  you  don't  know  your  own  heart.  Nevertheless,  I 
ean  rest  content  now.     It's  all  well.     I  have  your  word  for  it." 


Its  TBI  DITIL'b  Dt& 

**  You  !  "  Seeta  cried.  *•  Yob,  you  can  go  home  happy,  of  course. 
You  can  rest  content.  You've  broken  my  heart.  But  you've  saved 
Olwon's  some  little  external  sentimental  scratches.  If  I  don't  know 
my  own  heart,  I  know  yours.  You'd  massacre  a  thousand  of  us  in  cold 
blood  to  save  her  little  finger  from  aching  for  a  moment." 

At  the  upper  bench  they  rejoined  Olwen  and  the  colonel.  Seeta's 
face  was  calm  and  quiet  now  ;  but  her  eyes  were  dark-ringed  and  sadder 
than  usual.  As  they  came  up,  they  heard  the  colonel's  bland  voice, 
concluding  an  animated  narrative  of  eastern  life  to  Olwen.  **  These 
black  fellows  are  all  the  same,"  he  was  remarking,  cheerfully.  '*  I  just 
laid  my  hand  upon  the  fellow  with  a  gentle  tap — the  merest  touch,  I 
assure  you — and  he  toppled  over  dead  before  my  eyes — I  believe,  upon 
my  soul,  on  purpose  fco  spite  me.  They've  all  got  enlarged  spleens,  you 
know,  these  natives,  and  can  invariably  die  at  a  moment's  notice,  if 
they  want  to  got  a  European  into  hot  water.  However  the  court  took 
a  sensible  view  of  the  matter,  and  let  me  off  on  making  a  present  of  a 
few  rupees  to  the  syce's  relations." 

**  Why,  Seeta,"  the  colonel  said  testily,  as  he  escorted  her  back  to 
her  lodgings  from  the  Chicheles'  door,  *'  what  a  precious  long  and  con- 
fidental  tcte-d-tete  you  were  having  on  the  Heath  with  that  confounded 
Baboo  fellow  I  Dash  the  man's  impudence  1  Upon  my  soul,  I  really 
thought  at  one  time  he  was  going  to  have  the  impertinence  actually  to 
shake  hands  v/ith  me." 

•'  Dr.  Mohammad  Ali,"  Seeta  said  defiantly,  *'  whom  you  choose  to 
describe  out  of  pure  race-prejudice  as  a  Baboo — which  he  isn't — ha])pen8 
to  be  one  of  the  very  few  young  men  that  I  know  who  is  really  and 
truly  worth  the  trouble  of  talking  to.  Will  you  come  in  and  have  a 
bit  of  lunch  with  me,  Arthur  ? " 

The  colonel  whistled  a  bar  from  a  comic  song.  *'Why,  no,"  he 
answered.  *'  I  think  I'll  run  down  into  town  and  take  a  chop  and  a 
glass  of  claret  at  the  Senior  United." 

Seeta  Mayne  went  in  by  herself,  and  did  not  eat  any  lunch  at  alL 
She  lay  on  her  bed,  for  the  first  time  since  she  was  a  girl  in  her  teens, 
and  cried  her  proud  eyes  out  with  mingled  lave  and  anger  and  shame 
that  Mohanmiad  Ali  should  have  seen  so  much  further  into  herself  and 
the  circumstances  than  even  she  had  ever  dreamt  of  seeing. 

She  knew  it  now  for  what  it  was — love,  not  friendship.  She  had 
tried  for  months  to  deceive  and  hoodwink  herself,  setting  before  her 
eyes  those  harmless  little  conventional  blinds  with  which  ali  true 
women  in  her  place  endeavour  to  shut  out  the  light  of  their  own  con- 
sciences. But  the  gauzy  deceptions  had  broken  down  at  last,  and  she 
knew  it  now  for  love  and  not  friendship.  Knowing  it,  too,  for  what  it 
was,  she  know  she  had  but  one  course  left  open  before  her,  to  let  it  all 
die  out  at  once  between  them,  as  gently  and  as  lightly  and  unobstru- 
sively  as  possible.  For  Ivan  Royle  had  said  the  truth.  Seeta  Mayne 
was  the  proudest  woman  that  ever  lived,  and  her  very  pride  would 
alone  have  prevented  her  from  doing  in  word  or  thought  or  deed  the 


TUB  DBTIL's  DI8.  129 

slightest  iiEMginary  wrong  or  injustice  to  01  wen  Chichele.  If  it  cost 
her  her  life,  she  would  break  it  off.  If  her  right  eye  offended  her,  she 
would  pluck  it  out,  sooner  than  that  harm  should  cotno  to  Olwen. 
Foolish  she  might  be,  but  never  wicked.  She  would  at  least  be  just, 
at  whatever  sacrifice.  Her  heart  was  true ;  she  would  do  what  was 
right  and  let  the  heavens  crush  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

That  same  afternoon,  Mohammad  AH  was  pottering  about,  as  usual, 
with  the  poisons  and  infusions  in  Harry  Chichele's  private  laboratory. 
Harry  himself  had  gone  into  town  to  his  lectures  at  the  college,  and 
Olwen  was  out,  vainly  endeavoring  to  catch  up  the  arrears  of  visits 
which  pursue  one  like  one's  own  evil  conscience  towards  the  close  of  a 
busy  London  season.  Only  little  Lizbeth  was  left  to  share  the  freedom 
of  the  laboratory  with  him  ;  for  Lizbeth,  with  her  trained  and  dog-like 
fidelity  and  sagacity,  alone,  among  the  servants,  was  trusted  to  dust 
and  clean  up  the  jars  and  bottles  in  that  domestic  museum  of  plague, 
pestilence,  famine,  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death.  In  the  silence 
of  her  own  inaccessible  little  breast,  Lizbeth  harboured  a  special  grudge 
against  *'  the  blackamoor,"  as  she  always  called  Mohammad  Ali.  It 
wasn't  merely  because  he  was  a  black  man  ;  race-prejudice  is  slight  oi 
absent  among  the  lowest  stratum  of  the  English  population  ;  with  them, 
to  be  black,  partaking  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  a  distinction,  forms 
rather  a  ground  for  respect  and  consideration  than  for  contempt  and 
rudeness.  But  little  Lizbeth,  for  her  part,  never  needed  a  reason  ol 
any  sort  for  anything  she  did  or  said  or  thought  of.  Her  small  life 
consisted  entirely  of  a  bundle  of  instincts.  And  these,  as  a  rule,  were 
singularly  true.  Like  a  dog,  she  recognized  untold  her  master's  f  riendi 
and  her  master's  enemies  ;  she  knew  at  once  whom  to  trust  and  whom 
to  shrink  from.  She  would  have  laid  down  her  life  for  Seeta  Mayne 
the  very  first  time  she  ever  saw  her  ;  but  she  sniffed  danger  in  Moham- 
mad Ali's  watchful  glance  and  never-ceasing  scrutiny.  Her  intuition 
told  her  that  the  blackamoor  was  01  wen's  friend,  not  Harry's  ;  and  she 
felt  towards  him  somewhat  as  Emir,  Harry's  Persian  cat  that  dozed  so 
comfortably  before  the  laboratory  fire,  felt  towards  Fingal,  Olwen'a 
Skye  terrier,  whenever  that  misguided  drawing-room  pet  ventured 
tu  poke  his  aristocratic  nose  within  the  scientific  precincts  of  the  back 
laboratory. 

"  'Oo's  been  upsettin*  this  ere  glass  o'  typhoid  ?  "  Lizbeth  inquired 
in  an  aggrieved  tone,  holding  up  one  of  the  watch-glasses  in  which 
Harry  Chichele  was  accustomed  to  cultivate  the  germs  of  that  particulai 
form  of  epidemic  in  a  suitjible  liquid.  "  Gone  an'  wasted  mor'u  'arf  <^ 
it|  the  lazy  thing,  'ooever  done  it"  „       ^ 

(9)  '  '     ' 


ISO  TBB  devil's  DIB. 

•*  I  expect  it  was  Emir,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered  carelessly.  "  lie's 
always  walking  about  on  tiptoe  among  the  shelves.  I  often  wonder  ho 
doesn't  poison  himself,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  into  the  bargain." 

"  Emir  ! "  Lizbeth  rui)ejited  ironically  with  profound  contempt. 
**  Emir,  indeed  !  'E  wouldn't  do  it  1  That  cat's  got  every  bit  as  much 
sense  in  'is  'ead  as  a  born  Oliristian,  let  alone  a  'eathen  as  bows  down 
to  stocks  an'  stones  " — which  last  remark  was  a  misitlaced  reminiscence 
of  Olwen's  careful  religious  instruction,  imparted  with  difticulty  to  little 
Lizbeth's  benighted  mind.  *"  'E  don't  never  knock  down  nothink,  'e 
don't  ;  cats  never  does.  It's  two-legged  cats  as  knocks  'em  down,  that's 
'ow  I  takes  it.  Potterin'  about  when  the  doctor's  away,  an'  playin' 
with  the  infusions,  an'  mixin'  up  things  to  bother  'ini  and  fuss  'im  ! 
There  ain't  no  keepin'  this  laborritory  straight  nohow,  with  too  many 
cooks  spilin*  the  eppidemmicks.  Them  there  bacteria  won't  develop 
right,  because  there's  a  bottle  stuck  in  front  to  shut  the  sunlight  straight 
off  of  'em.  Bacteria  don't  never  come  to  nothink  in  the  dark,  do  they  ? 
*0o  put  that  bottle  there,  I'd  like  to  know  1  I  spose  that  was  Emir, 
too,  wasn't  it  ?  A  cat  as  can  move  about  a  bottle  in  'is  'ands  and  set  it 
down  in  front  of  another,  comes  precious  near  bein'  a  sort  of  'uman,  I 
reckon.  Leastways  about  as  near  as  a  'eathen  that  in  'ia  darkness  bows 
down  to  wood  an'  stone." 

**  You  display  a  very  rudimentary  acquaintance,  Lizbeth,  with  the 
doctrines  of  the  Prophet,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered  with  good  hum- 
oured chaff.  "  Your  ignorance  of  Islam,  indeed,  is  quite  exhaustive. 
It  must  be  the  cumulative  result  of  years  of  study.  As  I  have  before 
had  the  honour  of  pressing  upon  your  attention  more  than  once,  we  of 
the  Moslem  faith  are  not  heathens,  and  we  do  not  bow  down  to  the 
objects  of  work  you  are  good  enough  to  specify  in  such  plain  and  need- 
lessly forcible  language.  Have  the  kindness  to  answer  that  bell,  will 
you?" 

Lizbeth  obeyed,  glancing  round  behind  her  as  she  went  to  make 
quite  sure  that  Mohammad  Ali  would  not  in  her  absence  play  some 
heathenish  hocus-pocus  or  other  with  the  bottled  cholera  or  the  double 
extract  of  Indian  bungarus  poison.  For  she  took  a  personal  interest  in 
the  germs  and  viruses.  They  were  Harry  Chichele's  and  Lizbeth  con- 
sidered nothing  Chichelean  alien  to  her  own  little  personality.  She 
had  picked  up  the  externals  of  Harry's  business  with  most  marvellous 
sharpness.  She  could  distinguish  a  scarlatina  germ  under  the  micros- 
cope from  a  typhus  or  a  malarial  at  the  first  glance  ;  and  she  knew  as 
much  about  the  behaviour  of  bacilli  in  culture-liquids,  seen  with  a  high 
power,  as  the  greatest  authority  in  all  Germany.  In  fact,  in  her  em- 
pirical unscientific  way,  she  had  had  by  this  time  a  vast  and  varied  ex- 
perience of  germs  ;  she  was  as  much  at  home  with  them  in  real  life  as 
Ihe  author  of  the  Chichele  hypothesis  himself,  for  she  passed  her  time 
iiterally  in  the  laboratory,  and  spent  her  days  among  the  liquids  and 
infusions. 

**  Can  I  see  Dr.  Ali  ?  "  Ivan  Royle  asked. 

*'Come  in  1 "  Mohammad  Ali  cried  cheerfully.  "  Here  I  am,  you 
Me  i  pestling  a  poisoned  poison,  as  Tennyson  puts  it.    What's  the  next 


TBI  devil's  dih.  131 

ftrticle,  pray  ?  Will  you  try  our  new  scarlet  fever  gemn  I  Is  thert 
anything  I  can  do  for  you,  now,  in  cobras  or  in  cholera  ? " 

Ivan  Royle  looked  little  disposed  indeed  for  pleasantry.  **No,"  ha 
■aid  with  a  sharp  accent ;  "  unless,  indeed,  you  can  supply  me  with  a 
little  something  to  put  myself  out  of  the  way  quietly  at  the  shortest 
possible  notice,  and  with  the  smallest  possible  trouble  or  annoyance  to 
anybody  anywhere.  Can  you  send  that  little  imp  away  for  a  while  ? 
Thanks,  that'll  do.     I've  come  to  say  good-bye  to  you,  Ali." 

*'  Good-bye  1 "  Ali  echoed.  "  Why,  where  on  earth  are  you  going, 
Royle  ?    I  didn't  know  you  meant  to  leave  London." 

'*  I  didn't  yesterday,'  the  painter  answered  quietly  ;  **  I  do  to-day. 
I  start  from  Euston  this  evening  by  the  night  mail,  and  sail  to-morrow 
by  the  Aurania  from  Queenstown." 

"  To-morrow  1  From  Queenstown  1  Then  you're  going  to  America. 
Why,  bless  my  soul,  Royle,  this  is  very  sudden.  What  on  earth  has 
made  you  make  up  your  mind  so  quickly  ?  " 

•*  I  didn't  make  my  own  mind  up,"  Ivan  answered  evasively.  "My 
proprietors  and  lessees  made  their  minds  up  vicariously  for  me."  I've 
sold  myself  for  the  next  two  years,  body  and  soul,  and  pictures,  too, 
for  filthy  lucre,  to  the  management  of  the  Porte- Crayon.  They  want 
me  to  go  to  Western  America,  right  amongst  the  Pikes  and  Flats  and 
Big  Bonanzas,  for  three  purposes  all  at  once — to  send  them  sketches  of 
the  scenery  for  their  paper  ;  to  draw  character-studies  for  their  illus- 
trated edition  of  Bret  Harte  :  and  to  paint  them  two  or  three  big 
pictures,  on  commission,  for  two  or  three  rich  American  buyers.  I  saw 
their  advertisement — '  Wanted,  an  artist,  to  sell  his  soul  for  gold* — last 
night  in  the  AthencBum.  I  went  round  this  morning  and  saw  Christison 
about  it.  I  closed  at  once  with  his  o£fer,  and  he  with  mine.  I  cdlled, 
on  my  way  back,  at  the  Cunard  office,  in  Pall  Mall,  to  secure  my  berth. 
And  I  join  the  outward-bound  steamer  at  Queenstown  at  three  o'clock 
to-morrow." 

"  But,  my  dear  Royle,  this  haste  is  enough  to  fairly  take  one's  breath 
away.  We  orientals  are  a  slow  race,  you  know,  and  we  don't  under- 
stand such  headlong  precipitancy.  Why  on  earth  do  you  want  to  go 
to  America  at  all,  and  what  possible  terms  could  Christison  offer  that 
could  make  it  worth  while  for  you  to  close  with  him  ?  " 

Ivan  Royle  played  with  his  eye-glass  nervously.  "The  fact  is,  Ali," 
he  said  at  last,  *'  I've  come  to  say  good-bye  to  you  for  Chichele  and 
Mrs.  Chichele.  I — I  can't  stop  any  longer  in  England.  I  must  go 
away.     I — I  don't  like  to  remain  pear  them  any  longer." 

"  I  see,"  Ali  answered,  with  his  penetrating  glance  fixed  full  on 
Ivan.     '*  The  fact  is,  my  dear  fellow,  you  feel  you're  not  a  black  man." 

Ivan  shook  himself  somewhat  impatiently.  "  Well,  that's  just  about 
where  it  is,''  he  replied,  in  a  hesitating  tone.  "I  told  Mrs.  Chichele 
a  trifle  too  much  of  the  truth  yesterday.  I've  been  suflfering  agonies 
of  remorse  and  regret  ever  since  about  it ;  and  I  saw  no  other  way  to 
get  out  of  the  difliculty.  Ali,  I  can  never  look  upon  her  face  again.  I 
can't  stop  here  any  longer,  in  any  case.  Indeed,  I  wouldn't  even  have 
called  this  afternoon,  ii  I  hadn't  known  Mrs.  Chichele  was  out  and 


IS9  THB  detilIi  mm. 

Harrr  at  the  college.  I  want  you  to  say  good-by«  tp  them  both  for  me.** 
And  his  voice  faltered  very  perceptibly. 

'*  I'm  only  a  black  man  ;  not  a  man  at  all,  if  it  comes  t&  that/'  AH 
answered  in  his  softest  and  most  soothing  tones.  **  Everybody  con- 
fides his  troubles  to  me.  Tell  me  what  ib  is.  I  more  than  h«lf  guess 
it  already.  I've  been  your  friend,  from  the  first,  Royle.  What  did 
you  say  ?    Make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

With  many  stammerings  and  with  much  apology  Ivan  Royle  relat(»d 
at  last  the  whole  story  of  his  interview  the  day  before  with  Olwen.  At 
the  end  of  it  all,  Mohammad  Ali  looked  very  grave.  "  It  was  a  pity 
yj0u  blurted  it  out,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Most  truths  are  better  not 
spoken.  We  steer  our  way  through  life,  among  many  rocks,  for  the 
most  part  by  pretending  to  shut  our  eyes  all  round  to  everything  save 
the  little  that  society  recognizes.  A  world  that  admitted  the  truths  of 
things  would  be  a  world  fit  only  for  angels  or  for  Frenchmen.  The 
Buddhists  represent  the  way  of  salvation  in  this  planet  of  ours  by  the 
figures  of  three  little  squatting  monkeys.  The  first  has  his  hands 
clapped  upon  his  eyes  ;  the  second  has  his  hands  stopping  his  ears  ;  the 
third  has  his  hands  pressed  close  upon  his  mouth.  The  moial  is,  tliat 
if  you  wish  to  live,  you  must  shut  your  eyes,  you  must  shut  your  ears, 
and  you  must  shut  your  mouth,  and  then  you  may,  perhaps,  steer  clear 
of  evil.  I  don't  blame  yo'  You  are  a  white  man.  If  I  were  a  white 
man,  I  might  possibly  do  1  _  ii  same  myself.  I  only  thank  heaven  for 
my  happy  immunity.  As  you  say,  there's  nothing  else  possible  left 
open  to  you  now.  You  can't  stop  here.  This  is  a  serious  crisis.  You 
must  go,  of  course.  In  a  year  or  two,  perhaps,  you  may  venture  to 
return  again." 

"  Never,"  Ivan  Royle  exclaimed  gloomily. 

"  Never's  a  long  word,"  Mohammad  Ali  replied,  with  somewhat  less 
confidence.  "  We  none  of  us  know  what  a  day  may  bring  forth. 
Kismet,  kismet.  I  stand  by  and  watch  life  flowing  past  me  like  a 
river  ;  and  I  never  feel  sure  what  it  will  bring  next. 

"At  any  rate,"  Ivan  said,  *' you'll  keep  me  informed  from  time  to 
time  of  what  happens — of  how  Harry  is — and  Mrs.  Chichele." 

**  I  will,"  Ali  answered.  **  I  know  the  things  that  will  most  interest 
you.  Good  luck  go  with  you.  And  if  ever,  in  the  inscrutable  ordering 
of  events,  any  circumstances  should  chance  to  arise " 

*'No,  no,"  Ivan  replied.  '*  Don't  even  speak  of  it.  You  make  ms 
feel  like  a  criminal  at  heart.  I'm  running  away  from  my  own  wicked 
thoughts.     Don't  try  to  supply  them  with  fresh  imaginings." 

That  evening,  when  Harry  and  Olwen  returned,  Mohammad  Ali  in* 
▼ited  himself  to  a  cup  of  afternoon  tea  in  the  drawing-room.  He  told 
tiiem  briefly  that  Ivan  was  gone,  and  had  charj^ed  him  to  say  his  fare- 
wells to  both  of  them.  As  he  spoke,  he  watched  01  wen's  face  closely. 
She  turned  a  little  pale  at  the  first  announcement,  but  said  nothing. 
Harry  was  left  to  do  all  the  expression  of  astonishment.  *'  He  was 
quite  right  to  go,"  Olwen  said  after  a  long  pause,  not  exactly  to  her 
husband,  nor  yet  to  A.li ;  "  but — I  wish  he  could  have  said  good-bya  ta 


TBI  DXYIL'S  DIB.  133 

ai  himself.  One  doesn't  like  an  old  friend  to  go  away — for  ever — 
diat  way." 

*•  Ivan's  a  good  fellow,"  Ali  answered  simply,  **  and  I  don't  think 
he  meant  it  unkindly.  It  was  best,  perhaps,  he  should  go  without 
leave-taking," 

Olwen  knew  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  of  course,  it  was  best  so.  She 
couldn't  have  seen  him,  indeed — she  knew  that  too.  And  yet — and 
yet,  she  was  sorry  to  lose  him  so.  The  last  words  she  had  ever  spoken 
to  him  were  spoken  in  anger — in  merited  anger,  but  still  in  anger. 
And  he — he  had  always  been  so  kind  and  good  to  her.  She  was  deeply 
grieved.     Poor  dear  good  fellow  1 

A  woman's  heart  is  a  mystery  to  herself.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  by- 
standers often  see  most  of  the  game.  Olwen  knew  less  herself  about 
her  own  feelings  that  summer  evening  than  Muhammad  Ali  knew  about 
them  as  he  sat  and  watched  her.  Mohammad  Ali  knew  what  she 
meant.     In  spite  of  all,  she  was  sorry  to  lose  Ivan. 

About  ten  o'clock  the  same  night  Colonel  Arthur  Mayne,  Companion 
of  the  Most  Exalted  Order  of  the  Star  of  India,  returned  to  hia  sister*! 
lodgings  at  Hampstead. 

'  *  I've  found  out  ali  about  your  Baboo,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  malici- 
oualy,  as  he  flung  himself  down  into  an  easy  chair.  '*  He's  the  son  of 
a  confounded  Mohammedan  money-lender  whom  I  happen  to  know  for 
my  sins  at  Saharanpur  in  the  North- West  Provinces.' 

**  And  to  whom ,  I  suppose,"  Seeta  answered  with  provoking  cool- 
ness, *'  you  owe  the  money  with  which  you've  come  home  to  your 
affectionate  friends  on  this  present  visit." 

Colonel  Mayne  winced.  Seeta  had  unwittingly  hit  him  on  the  raw. 
Mohammad  Ali's  father,  as  chance  would  have  it,  had  indeed  supplied 
the  sinews  of  war  for  his  recent  journey.  "  Confound  the  fellow," 
he  murmured,  **  with  his  swell  coat  and  his  orchid  in  his  buttonhole  I 
Why  the  dickens  can't  he  stick  to  the  simple  diess  of  his  fathers,  I 
wonder  ?  Figging  himself  out  for  all  the  world  like  a  member  of  council 
and  a  pucker  European  I "  ^  ^ 

"It's  a  glorious,  thing.  Indeed,"  Seeta  answered  ironically,  "to 
elevate  and  educate  and  Europeanize  the  natives  of  India,  as  I  heard 
you  say  to  Mrs.  Chichele  this  morning— and  then  to  laugh  at  them  for 
having  accepted  your  proffered  education  and  your  European  culture." 

"  Ho  1 "  the  colonel  observed,  with  a  quick  glance  at  his  sister's  rod 
eyes.  "So  the  monsoon  has  burst,  has  it'/  Did  Ivan  Royle  call  here 
to-day;  then  ?  He  came  to  see  me  at  the  club  in  the  course  of  the 
afternoon. " 

"  Ivan  Royle  !  "  Seeta  answered,  with  profound  scorn,  wondering  at 
her  brother's  sudden  change  of  subject.  "Oh,  dear  no.  He's  seldom 
here.     He  spends  most  of  his  time  at  the  Chichele's,  1  fancy." 

"  Small  blame  to  him,  then,"  Colonel  Mayne  responded  gaily. 
"  Nice  little  body,  that  little  Mrs.  Chichele.  Good  eyes  ;  capital 
figure  !  Took  a  great  fancy  to  her  myself  this  morning.  JBut  he  won'l 
^0  there  any  more  in  future,  anyhow.     He's  off  to  Amerioft." 


^34  THS  devil's  dh. 

*' Off  where!"  Seeta  cried,  astonished. 

**  America,"  the  colonel  repeated  calmly.  **  Yes,  I  said  America. 
A-M-B-R-i-c-A — America.  To  be  quite  definite,  and  accurate,  and  suc- 
cinct. New  York,  New  York  City.  I  believe  the  city  is  an  invariable 
addition  with  the  native-born  citizen.  He's  gone  off  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  do  some  illustrations  for  a  paper  they  call  the  Portmantea/u 
or  the  Portfolio,  or  the  Porte-Crayon,  or  the  Porte- Cochere,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort. 

■**  What  did  he  go  for  ? "  Seeta  asked  quietly. 

*'  Don't  I  tell  you,  he  went  to  do  some  pictures  for  this  port-some- 
thing-or-other  ?  "  her  brother  responded  with  a  sharp  look. 

Seeta  glanced  over  at  him  with  supreme  contempt.  "That's  what 
he's  going  to  do  when  he  gets  there,"  she  said  in  a  withering  voice. 
*'  What  I  want  to  know  is  why  he's  gone.  And  I  guess  why,  to.  I 
might  have  forseen  it.  He  couldn't  stop  in  England  any  longer.  A 
curioua  coincidence.     Such  things  tviU  happen. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

For  some  days  Seeta  Mayne  saw  no  more  of  Harry  Chichele. 
Uncertain  in  her  own  mind  how  to  proceed,  she  endeavoured  as  far  as 
possible  to  avoid  him.  She  stood,  indeed,  between  two  fires.  On  the 
one  hand,  her  promise  to  Mohammad  Ali  bound  her  down  to  renounce 
her  friendship  with  Harry  for  ever  ;  and  even  if  Seeta  had  not  recog- 
nised in  her  inmost  heart  the  truth  of  all  the  Indian  had  told  her  about 
Olwen's  feelings,  her  very  pride  and  sense  of  womanhood  would  have 
urged  her  hard  to  keep  the  compact  she  had  made  with  him  on  the 
Heath  that  summer  morning.  On  the  other  hand,  she  shrank  with 
unspeakable  shrinking  from  a  definite  breach  with  Harry  Chichele. 
Apart  from  her  strong  regard  and  affection  for  him,  her  mere  sense  of 
consistency  and  continuity  pulled  hard  against  the  idea  of  unsaying 
again  what  she  had  said  to  him  so  plainly  so  short  a  time  ago  :— ■ 
*' Harry,  you  are  very,  very  dear  to  me  ;  let  us  tread  the  mountain 
heights  of  human  thought  and  human  sympathy  hand-in-hand  together 
always."  How  could  she  go  back  now  upon  that  solemn  declaration  of 
undying  friendship.  How  could  she  retract  those  binding  words  so  soon, 
within  a  few  weeks  of  the  time  she  had  first  uttered  them  ?  It  was  easy 
enough  for  Seeta,  in  a  moment  of  heated  emotion,  to  give  her  word  to 
Ali  on  the  Heath  that  day  that  she  would  let  her  friendship  for  Harry 
Chichele  smoulder  out  slowly— that  Olwen  should  never  feel  hurt  again 
at  her  conduct,  that  all  should  be  forgotten  and  broken  off  between 
them  ;  but  it  was  hard  indeed  to  put  that  easy  promise  into  actual 
practice — hard  to  face  Harry  himself  —Harry  to  whom  she  had  said  so 
much  and  so  earnestly — and  to  tell  him  they  must  never  more  be  evea 
friends,  scarcely  more  be  even  everyday  acquaintances.  Her  very  pridt 


TBI  DSYIL'i  DIB.  1^5 

■tood  sternly  In  the  way.    Pride  on  this  side  and  pride  on  that,  tore 
her  heart  remorselessly  in  either  direction. 

But  if  she  could  rot  tell  Harry,  far  less  could  she  let  the  friendship 
die  away  by  degretss,  as  she  first  imagined,  without  ever  saying  any- 
thing at  all  to  him  about  it.  That  would  be  the  most  cowardly  course 
of  all ;  that  would  degrade  her  in  her  own  eyes  by  making  her  seem  to 
Harry  himself  one  of  those  light  unstable  women  whose  flittiug  affect- 
Ions  come  and  go,  who  breathe  to-day  the  fier<iest  emotion,  and  for- 
swear themselves  to-morrow  out  of  pure  fickleness.  Women  like  that 
she  hated  and  despised.  She  could  not  let  herself  be  numbered  with 
them.  She  must  tell  Harry  why  she  would  break  with  him.  She 
must  save  at  least  her  own  self-respect.  She  must  let  him  know  she 
was  making  a  terrible  sacrifice,  and  making  it  for  pure  and  unselfish 
reasons. 

Her  couj.'age  would  have  failed  her,  however,  to  seek  an  interview. 
She  waited  till  one  was  thrust  upon  her  by  circumstances. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  chance  came.  Seeta  was  sitting  at  her  desk 
one  morning,  idly  pretending  to  correct  the  manuscript  of  her  last  new 
unfinished  novel — what  was  fame  or  money  to  her  nowadays  ? — when  a 
well-known  rat-tat- tat  sounded  at  the  door,  and  Harry,  alone,  was 
ushered  into  her  study. 

Seeta  rose,  majestic,  to  meet  him.  Never  before  had  Harry  seen  her 
look  so  grand,  or  statuesque,  or  queenlike.  She  moved  across  the 
room  with  the  gait  of  a  goddess,  gliding  gently  over  the  soft  rich  carpet 
with  a  sort  of  imperceptible  easy  motion.  Her  white  hand  stretched 
out  to  clasp  his  own,  She  looked  at  him  long  in  strange  silence. 
Harry  felt  sure  some  profound  emotion  was  deeply  stirring  her.  She 
held  his  hand  for  fully  a  minute  ;  then  she  let  it  drop  again,  and  seated 
herself  with  evident  fatigue  in  the  small  armchair.  She  motioned 
Harry  to  the  big  one  with  her  hand.  He  took  it,  silently,  and  turned 
towards  her  with  a  look  of  wondering  inquiry. 

**  Olwen's  quite  uneasy  because  you  haven't  been  to  see  us  for  so 
many  days  together,"  he  said  hastily.  "  She  sent  me  round  to  see  if 
you  were  ill.  You've  never  left  us  so  long  unvisited  before,  Seeta. 
Olwen's  quite  annoyed  with  you,  she  told  me  to  tell  you." 

**  Olwen's  a  darling,"  Seeta  Mayne  answered,  with  choking  throat. 
*•  It  was  very  good  of  her  to  send  you  round.  Circumstjincea  havo 
made  it  extremely  difficult  for  me  to  call  at  your  house  of  lute.     Yuu 

see,  my  brother's  visit " 

Harry  looked  at  her  half  reproachfully.  '*  Why,  Seeta,"  he  cried  in 
a  pahied  tone,  *'  Olwen  and  I  flattered  ourselves  we  were  at  least  u 
much  to  you  as  many  brothers." 

Seeta  strove  hard  to  master  that  tell-tale  voice  of  hers.  **  Harry," 
■he  said,  "  don't  press  me  too  hard.  I've  suffered  much,  very  much, 
since  I  saw  you.  Harry,  Harry,"  and  she  broke  down  utterly.  '*  It 
must  be  all  up,  all  up  between  us.  I  have  done  wrong,  very,  very 
wrong.  You,  perhaps,  have  done  wrong  too.  I  don't  know.  I'm  not 
sure  about  it.  Now  we  have  both  to  puy  the  penalty.  I  must  leave 
London  ;  I  must  never  see  yuu  again  while  I  live.     It  is  terrible,  but 


1S€  THs  devil'i  dis. 

it  ifl  right,  I  know  now  that  I  have  been  unconsciously  and  unwillingly 
wronging  Olwen." 

**  Wronging  Olwen  ?  " 

*'ye8,  by  taking  part  of  your  heart  away  from  her,  Harry." 

"Seeta,  Seeta,  this  is  terribly  sudden.  You  don't  mean  it  I  You 
can't  mean  it.  You're  not  really  going  to  leave  me  for  ever  and  ever  I 
Seeta — I  will  say  it— I  love  you,  I  love  you.  I  love  you  as  I've  never 
loved  in  my  life  before.  I  mean  what  I  say.  If  you  go  I  shall  feel  ray 
house  is  indeed  left  unto  me  desolate." 

Seeta  had  risen  from  her  chair  at  the  Word,  and  stood  like  a  statue 
now  before  him.  *' Harry."  she  said,  with  slow  emphasis,  "you  are 
doing  very,  very  wrong  to  say  so.  It  isn  t  right,  it  isn't  right  to 
Olwen.  You've  sealed  my  determination,  if  it  needed  sealing.  Go 
back  to  Olwen  ?  Go  back  to  her  1  Go  back  to  her  !  You're  her's,  not 
mine  1  How  dare  you  speak  like  that  to  me,  sir  ?  "  And  for  a  moment 
her  anger  flared  up  genuinely.  "  Remember  who  I  am  and  what  I 
am  1     How  dare  you  insult  me  by  speaking  so  to  me  ? " 

Harry  fell  back  a  pace  toward  the  study  door.  "  Because  it's  the 
truth,"  he  answered  boldly  and  doggedly. 

Seeta  flung  herself  once  more  into  the  chair  and  burst  into  a  sudden 
flood  of  tears  "  I  know  it's  the  truth,"  she  cried  earnestly.  "  Harry, 
forgive  me  I  What  am  I  to  do  ?  Oh,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  You  know 
the  truth.     Harry,  I " 

"Love  you  1" 

Seeta  let  her  hand  drop  listlessly  by  her  side.  "  Go  home,"  she 
cried,  flinging  back  her  head  and  displaying  her  proud  imperial  throat 
in  all  its  exquisite  sculpturesque  beauty.  "I  never  said  so.  Go  back 
to  Olwen  !  It's  your  duty.  You  know  it.  I've  promised  I'll  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  you  in  future.  Our  friendship  must  cease 
henceforth  and  for  ever.  To-day  is  the  last  of  it.  Go,  go  ;  go  at  once  1 
Why  stbp  to  torture  me  here  any  longer  ?  " 

Harry  seated  himself  with  a  contrite  air  on  a  low  chair  near  the 
hearthrug  beside  her.  He  tried  to  take  her  bloodless  hand  in  his,  but 
she  drew  it  away  hastily  with  feminine  pride  and  resolution.  "  Seeta," 
he  said,  in  a  soft  low  voice,  a  persuasive  voice,  gentle  and  melodious, 
"why  may  it  not  still  be  friendship?  Friendship  is  surely  no  sin 
against  Olwen.  You  said  so  yourself  ;  why  unsay  it  ?  You  and  I  were 
mpde  by  nature  for  one  another.  I  feel  more  deeply  now  than  ever 
how  much  we  were  built  each  for  his  fellow.  I  can't  go  away.  Imwt 
stop  with  you." 

Seeta  made  no  audible  answer  at  all,  though  her  lips  quivered,  bu* 
rocked  herself  up  and  down  in  her  easy  chair  in  silent  misery,  like  a 
wounded  creature.     Her  heart  was  torn  asunder  within  her. 

Encouraged  by  her  silence,  Harry  went  on.  He  U  'ked  to  her  long, 
earnestly,  passionately.  Seeta  listened — she  could  not  choose  but 
listen,  but  her  mind  was  fully  made  up  now,  and  she  only  shook  her 
head  with  mournful  persistence  at  all  his  pleadings.  "No,  no,"  she 
said  ;  "  you've  yourself  pronounced  the  doom  of  our  friendship.  You've 
•ung  its  requiem.     You've  dug  a  grave  for  it.     The  moment  that  you 


THB  detil'i  dii.  137 

ottered  those  fatal  words,  '  Seeta  I  love  you,'  you  made  mere  friendship 
henceforth  impossible  for  ever.     Harry,  I  won't  be  untrue  to  Olwen. 
You  may  be  untrue  to  her,  but  /  will  not.     I  shall  leave  London.     I 
shall  go  at  once.     I  shall  save  her  from  her  husband.     You  shall  see 
no  more  of  me." 

"  Seeta,  Seeta  1  Olwen  can  never,  never  be  to  me  what  you  have 
been,  what  you  are  and  will  always  be." 

"  Harry,  Harry  1     Don't  say  so  1     I  know  it  1     Nobody  could  ever 

feel  towards  you  as  profoundly  as  I  feel.     No  woman  ever  yet ** 

She  was  going  to  say  "loved  as  I  love  ;"  but  she  checked   herself  in 
time,  and  substituted  for  it,  *'  thought  as  I  think." 

Harry  threw  himself  back  ia  his  chair  in  turn  and  groaned  aloud. 
He  knew  he  loved  her.  He  knew  she  loved  him.  He  had  forgotten 
all  about  Olwen  now  ;  he  could  think  of  nothing  on  earth  but  Seeta — 
Seeta. 

Presently,  Seeta  rose  from  her  chair  once  more.  She  rose  this  tim« 
calm  and  deliberate.  The  storm  of  her  passion  had  swept  through  her 
now,  and  left  her  resolute,  determined,  cold,  unflinching.  Slie  gave 
her  hand  with  queenly  dignity  to  Harry.  "Good-bye,"  she  said, 
"  good-bye  for  ever." 

"  Am  I  really  to  go  1 "  he  asked,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  subdued 
emotion. 

*'  You  are  really  to  go,"  Seeta  answered  firmly. 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  in  his  own.  **  Good-bye,  Seeta," 
he  said.  "  The  happiest  dream  of  my  existence  has  faded  for  ever. 
Henceforth  we  two  shall  live  like  severed  halves  of  one  divided  being. 
Nature  meant  us  for  one  another.  The  wretched  conventions  and 
dogmas  of  men  have  kept  us  asunder." 

•'  Go,"  Seeta  repeated.  '*  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer.  Go  at  once, 
Harry.     Go,  go,  and  spare  me." 

*'  I  will  go,"  Harry  answered,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  half  turning 
towards  the  door.  "  Good-bye,  Seeta.  Good-bye  for  ever.  I'm  going 
now.  But  just  this  once  —for  a  last  farewell — this  once  only — you  will 
not  refuse  me  1 "     And  he  held  out  his  face  temptingly  to  kiss  her. 

For  a  moment,  Seeta  almost  yielded  basely  to  her  overwrought  feel- 
ings. She  was  a  woman,  and  she  loved  him  unutterably  1  She  pursed 
up  her  lips  and  held  them  out  obediently  towards  his.  Harry  bent 
his  head  eagerly  forward  to  meet  them.  Then,  with  a  sudden  gesture 
of  horror  and  remorse,  she  came  to  herself  again.  Womanly  dignity 
reasserted  its  sway.  Before  Harry  had  time  to  press  his  eager  lips  to 
hers,  she  withdrew  her  face,  now  hot  and  crimson,  and  cried  aloud 
with  a  mingled  cry  of  shame  and  indignation,  *'  Never,  never  1  while 
Olwen  lives,  you  shall  never  touch  them  1  Cruel,  cruel  1  how  dare 
you  attempt  it  1  Your  lips  are  hers  1  Your  heart  is  hers  !  Go  home 
to  her  now  1     Go  home  to  Olwon  t " 

As  she  spoke  she  opened  the  study  door  and  swept  past  him  haughtily 
with  her  rustling  train,  into  the  narrow  passage  and  up  the  dim  stair- 
case to  her  own  bedroom.  Harry,  left  alone  in  the  study  by  himself, 
did  A0(  iao?«  or  stir  an  inch  fur  oouiu  uiiuut^Jii.    U*  merely  aung  hiu* 


188  THK  detil's  dik 

self  back  in  the  easy  chair,  with  his  hand  on  his  forehead,  and  let  hit 
own  wild  thoughts  whirl  round  and  round  in  strange  eddies  through 
his  fevered  brain,  alive  now  with  terrible  phantasms  of  his  imagination. 

How  innocently  one  may  speak  a  hasty  word  which  brings  some 
unspeakable  and  unthinkable  calamity  on  some  helpless  person  ! 

When  Seeta  said,  '*  While  Olwen  lives,"  she  only  meant  to  reject, 
in  the  strongest  and  most  positive  terms  that  occurred  to  her,  Harry 
Chichele's  cruel  and  wicked  advances.  Olwen  was  his  wife ;  while 
Olwen  lived  no  other  woman  had  a  right  to  his  love  or  any  part  of  it. 

But  to  Harry  Chichele,  with  his  bold,  unscrupulous,  emancipated 
intelligence,  sitting  there  by  himself  and  thinking  her  words  delibe- 
rately over  in  the  easy  chair,  they  conveyed  a  very  different  suggestion 
indeed  from  the  one  which  Seeta  meant  to  convey  by  them.  "  While 
Olwen  lives  1 "  Yes,  yes  ;  that  was  quite  clear.  Seeta  Mayne  was  a 
high  spirited  and  strong-minded  woman.  Profoundly  as  he  knew  she 
loved  him  in  her  heart,  while  Olwen  lived,  he  was  sure  that  she  would 
have  nothing  more  to  say  to  him.  He  understood  her  well  enough  to 
feel  certain  of  that.  While  Olwen  lived  !  While  she  lived  1  Just  so. 
Then  there  was  that  one  chance  yet  open  to  him  in  the  future.  Olwen 
was  young  and  strong  and  vigorous  ;  but  accidents — accidents  happen 
everywhere.  Who  could  say  what  sort  of  accident  might  not  happen 
some  day  to  Olwen  ? 

While  Olwen  lives  1  While  Olwen  lives  I  As  Harry  Chichele  walked 
slowly  home,  with  his  head  whirling  and  eddying  and  swimming  around 
him,  that  one  chance  sentence,  dropped  by  accident  from  Seeta's  lips, 
kept  floating  ever  visibly  before  his  eyes,  ringing  in  his  ears,  echoing  in 
his  heart,  absorbing  and  monopolizing  his  entire  being.  If  ever  any  ■ 
thing  should  happen  to  Olwen — and,  after  all,  we  are  all  mortal — why, 
then,  he  might  yet  be  happy  with  Seeta.  Seeta  loved  him  ;  she  hao 
more  than  admitted  it ;  if  only  by  some  passing  caprice  of  nature 
Olwen  were  removed  some  day  from  their  path,  he  and  Seeta  might 
yet  walk  the  mountain  heights  of  life  together.  The  mountain  heights 
of  life  1  Ay,  ay,  ineffable  peaks  of  glory.  What  mountain  heights 
they  seemed,  indeed  I  He  with  Seeta,  Seeta  with  him — what  pinnacles 
of  thought,  what  summits  of  fame,  what  Alps  and  Himalayas  of  human 
greatness,  they  two  might  scale  and  conquer  in  unison  ! 

But,  oh,  the  cruel  irony  of  fate  1  Olwen  lived  ;  and  Seeta  had  said 
good-bye  to  him  forever  1  Forever  is  a  very  long  time.  Still,  even 
so,  there  was  yet  hope.  Who  knows  what  a  single  day  may  bring 
forth  ?  Accidents  may  happen  to  all  of  us  at  any  time.  A  medical 
man  is  the  last  man  on  earth  to  count  too  confidently  on  length  of  days 
for  anybody  anywhere.  Constitutions  are  so  very  precarious.  The 
chapter  of  accidents  is  practically  infinite  ;  all  medical  science  is  but 
the  carefully  compiled  index  to  its  endless  possibilities. 

At  his  own  door,  Olwen  met  him  with  a  frank  smile.  He  kissed 
her  tenderly  on  her  smooth  little  forehead.  It  was  a  sort  of  kindly 
paternal  kiss  ;  excellent,  good  little  girl,  Olwen  1  "  Seeta's  all  right,  * 
be  cried,  in  answer  to  her  timid  inquiring  look  ;  **  but  she's  been  bu»7 


THE  DETIL'B  die.  l.?9 

of  late  with  this  precious  brother  of  hers,  and  she's  thinlcing  soon  d 
leaving  London." 

*'  Leaving  London  1 "  Olwen  cried  in  surprise.  *'  Why,  London  wiU 
seem  like  a  desert  now  without  her. " 

Harry  smiled  a  sad,  short  smile.  A  desert,  indeed  1  To  him  no 
Sahara  could  ever  be  more  terrible. 

That  evening  Harry  lay  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room,  consulting 
a  large  and  heavy  book.  It  was  all  full  of  endless  tables  and  figures. 
Olwen  glanced  casually  over  his  shoulder  as  he  read.  She  saw  it  was  a 
book  of  medical  statistics,  by  a  certain  Dr.  Farr,  of  the  Registrar 
General's  office.  The  column  Harry  was  glancing  at,  bore  at  its  top  the 
simple  inscription,  "Expectation  of  Female  Life  between  the  Ages  of 
"  vsrenty  and  Thirty."  Olwen  was  not  at  all  surprised.  Harry  was 
always  working  at  such  abstruse  subjects. 

As  she  looked,  the  servant  brought  her  in  a  little  twisted  pencil- 
written  note.  It  was  addressed  to  her  hastily  in  Seeta's  handwriting. 
"My  darling  Olwen,"  it  said  simply,  "  I  need  your  advice,  your  help, 
your  sympathy.  I  shall  leave  London  for  a  tour  in  Norway  with  my 
brother,  to-morrow.  When  I  return  it  will  be  to  Italy,  not  to  England. 
Come  round  in  the  morning  alone  and  see  me.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  for 
the  laat  time. — Yours  ever  devotedly,  S.  M." 

Harry  looked  over  her  shoulder  in  dismay.  Would  Seeta  betray 
him  to  Olwen,  he  wondered.  He  slept  but  little  that  weary  night.  It 
was  bad  enough  to  have  to  part  with  Seeta — estrangement  from  Olwen 
at  the  same  time  would  be  more  than  his  lacerated  heart  could  bear. 
Truly,  truly,  his  punishment  had  come.  He  had  sown  the  wind — he 
was  reaping  the  whirlwind.    ' 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

Tns  age  of  our  affections  cannot  be  measured  by  days,  and  weeki, 
and  months,  and  years,  as  computed  at  the  Royal  Observatory,  Green- 
wich. They  are  old  in  proportion  to  their  relative  strength.  There 
are  emotions  that  bum  themselves  into  the  very  core  and  centre  of  our 
minds  at  a  few  moments'  notice,  too  profoundly  to  be  evqr  again  eradi- 
cated. There  are  faces  we  have  seen  but  for  half  an  hour  in  a  lifetime, 
which,  nevertheless,  we  cannot  hope  to  forget  while  life  itself  remains 
at  all  to  us.  There  are  affections  and  friendships  formed  in  a  few 
weeks  of  happy  intercourse,  which  mean  more  to  us  than  many  ordinary 
perfunctory  acquaintanceships  of  long  standing  and  ineffable  dullness. 
New  as  they  are,  they  have  interwoven  themselves  at  once  with  subtle 
strands  into  the  inmost  fabric  of  our  mental  being  ;  they  have  entwined 
themselves  with  the  warp  and  woof  of  our  spiritual  existence.  They 
are  plants  that  grow  apace  in  fruitful  soil.  To  uproot  them  is  to  tear 
Mundor  th9  very  basis  and  foundation  of  our  nature;  like  Jonah'a 


THB   DBYIL's   Die. 

gourd,  they  have  flourished  in  a  day  so  as  to  enshroud  and  overshadow 
our  entire  personality. 

So  Seeta  Mayne  felt  that  summer  day  towards  Harry  Chichele.  In 
■pite  of  all  her  flighty  eloquence  and  wayward  moods,  she  was  at  heart 
a  woman  of  profound  principle  ;  she  knew  she  had  acted  wrong  to 
01  wen,  and  she  knew  she  must  submit  to  bear  the  merited  punishment 
of  her  wrong-doing.  But  it  cost  her  hard  for  all  that.  The  wrench 
was  terrible.  And  most  terrible  of  all,  she  had  of  necessity  to  endure 
it  in  silence  and  alone ;  she  could  look  nowhere  on  earth  for  help  or 
sympathy.  For,  to  speak  of  it  to  Olwen,  would  be  to  wreck  and  ruin 
poor  Olwen's  happiness  ;  and  Seeta  waa  far  too  humane,  as  well  as  far 
too  proud,  to  venture  on  such  a  base  and  cruel  line  of  action.  She 
must  smother  her  grief  somehow  in  her  own  breast  though  it  burnt  like 
fire,  and  go  about  the  world  cheerfully  with  her  brother  Arthur,  as  if 
nothing  at  all  had  happened  to  disconcert  her. 

When  Olwen  came,  Seeta  flung  her  arms  around  her  neck  wildly, 
told  her  with  many  hot  tears  she  was  in  great  trouble,  asked  for  her 
love,  her  caresses,  her  sympathy,  but  never  whispered  one  single  word 
to  her  about  Harry's  visit.  She  only  repeated,  over  and  over  again,  that 
something  had  happened,  some  dreadful  thing  had  happened,  to  drive 
her  away  for  ever  from  London.  She  would  never,  never  more  return 
to  this  hateful  England.  She  had  always  hated  it ;  she  hated  it  now 
worse  than  ever.  Olwen  must  write  to  her  verj',  very  often,  and  per- 
haps in  the  winter,  when  Harry  could  spare  her,  run  down  to  Florence 
by  herself  for  a  week  or  two  to  comfort  and  console  her.  *'  I  shall 
never  come  again  as  long  as  I  live.  Kiss  me,  but  don't  ask  me  why, 
for  heaven's  sake,  my  darling." 

Olwen,  dimly  speculating  in  her  own  mind,  thinking  first  of  Ivan 
Royle's  hasty  departure,  and  then  of  Seeta's  equally  hurried  and  mys- 
terious journey,  vaguely  guessed  in  her  simple  way  the  whole  sad  truth  ; 
but,  for  very  womanliness,  she  refused  to  admit  it  even  to  herself.  It 
must  be  something  connected  with  Colonel  Mayne's  afiairs,  she  pre- 
tended to  believe  ;  Seeta  must  be  going  so  unexpectedly  to  Norway  to 
please  and  humor  her  scapegrace  brother.  These  military  men  have 
always  debts  and  complications  and  heaven  knows  what  ;  and  Seeta  had 
hinted  to  her  more  than  once  that  day  that  Arthur's  finances  were  dis- 
tinctly complicated. 

But  when  she  had  seen  Seeta  off"  that  afternoon  by  the  Hull  train, 
and  returned  herself  with  red  eyes  to  her  darkened  home  in  Queen 
Anne's  Road,  she  realized  all  at  once,  as  she  sat  in  htw  own  bedroom, 
the  utter  loneliness  of  her  situation.  Seeta  gone  ;  Ivan  gone  ;  she  was 
left  alone — alone  with  Harry.  Once  she  would  have  thought  that  the 
pmnacle  of  happiness—  but  now  !  She  longed  and  yearned  for  living 
sym})athy  ;  and  Harry — Harry  could  not  possibly  give  it  to  her.  The 
terrible  truth  came  home  to  her  with  a  flash  ;  it  was  sympathy  in  her 
relations  with  Harry  himself  for  which  she  was  longing  and  yearning  so 
eagerly. 

That  evening  Mohammad  Ali  stopped,  as  he  often  did,  at  the  Chic- 
heW  to  dinner.     Grave,  gentle,  chivalrous  as  ever,  to-night  he  wai 


YHB  BBVIL'S  DIS.  HI^ 

even  more  fcender  and  respectful  to  Olwen  than  usual.  Olwen  half 
fancied  once  or  twice  in  her  own  mind  that  her  black  friend  must  really 
have  divined  her  inmost  thoughts,  and  that  he  was  trying  his  best  to 
show  himself  sympathetic  and  generous  to  her  in  her  unspoken  trouble. 
She  shrank  from  the  belief,  and  yet  it  pleased  her.  Even  a  black  man'i 
sympathy  is  better  than  nothing. 

If  only  Seeta  could  have  stopped  in  England  1  Irrational  as  ifc  was  to 
think  so,  Olwen,  nevertheless,  felt  that  if  only  she  could  have  Seeta's 
sympathy  she  would  not  mind  so  much  about  Harry.  She  longed  with 
exceeding  great  longing  for  her  rival's  presence  ;  she  felt  as  if  she  could 
have  cried,  "Oh,  Seeta,  Seeta,  come  back  at  once,  and  let  what  will 
in  any  way  happen.  I  care  for  nothing  if  only  I  have  your  dear  affec- 
tion." 

Months  went  by,  and  the  Chichele  household  behaved  externally  to 
all  outer  observers  exactly  the  same  as  it  had  ever  done.  Harry  was 
studiously  polite  and  atten  ive  to  Olwen  ;  Olwen  was  watchful  and 
careful  of  Harry's  comfort.  Only  Mohammad  Ali,  with  his  piercing 
oriental  eye,  in  and  out  of  the  house  from  day  to  day,  recognized  in  his 
keen  way  that  this  was  at  best  but  a  modus  vivendi.  The  high  contract- 
ing parties  had  struck  a  silent  concordat  with  one  another.  They  never 
acknowledged  the  humiliating  fact  even  to  their  own  hearts  and  con- 
sciences ;  but  they  were  living  now,  as  the  world  phrases  it,  '*  very  com- 
fortably, don't  you  know,  together." 

Never  acknowledged  it  even  to  themselves  1  Well,  at  any  rata, 
Olwen  didn't.  For,  as  to  Harry,  those  three  words,  **  While  Olwen 
lives,"  had  sunk  profoundly  into  the  very  core  and  root  of  his  soul,  and 
branded  themselves  deep  into  his  inmost  brain-structures.  They 
danced  like  a  vision  before  his  waking  eyes  ;  they  rang  like  a  chorus 
in  his  sleeping  ears  ;  they  accompanied  him  about  in  the  streets  and  the 
parks,  and  the  college  lecture  rooms  ;  they  obtruded  themselves  even 
into  his  chemical  formulas,  and  disturbed  by  their  presence  with  rude 
familiarity  his  scientific  work  at  the  {etiological  laboratory.  Every  day 
and  all  day  long  he  thought  to  himself  of  that  prospective  possible  tim« 
when  Olwen  might  stand  in  his  way  no  longer,  and  when  he  and  Seeta 
tfiight  be  happy  together.  Seeta  had  woven  herself  now  into  the  thread 
Df  his  destiny  ;  he  could  not  think  her  out  of  it  again  ;  without  Seeta 
there  was  no  day-dream  or  hope  or  scheme  for  the  future  conceivable 
Miy  longer  for  Harry  Chichele. 

And  the  infatuation  grew  daily  worse  and  worse.  By  dint  of  con- 
tinually thinking  about  Seeta  as  the  permanant  reality,  and  of  Olwen 
is  a  merely  temporary  and  removable  accident,  likely  sooner  or  later  to 
disappear  from  the  scene,  he  got  at  last  to  make  no  long  plans  ahead  in 
any  way  for  Olwen,  but  to  hold  himself  always  in  readiness,  as  it  were, 
|or  her  final  disappearance  from  the  stage  at  any  minute.  He  bore  her 
0o  sort  of  grudge  or  ill-will  indeed  ;  on  the  contrary,  in  a  passive,  habi- 
tual, stereotyped  kind  of  way,  he  liked  her  or  loved  her  as  well  m  ever 
— at  least  since  their  first  regular  settling  down  into  the  quiet  humdrum 
of  matrimonial  existence.  She  was  a  gentle,  lovable,  affectionate  litMe 
thing  i  and  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  do  othef  wiae  Uua  return  h«r 


142  THE  devil's  du. 

proffered  affection.  He  was  fond  cf  Olwen,  as  he  was  fond  of  Emir,  the 
Persian  cat,  and  fond  of  Fingal,  the  shaggy  Skye  terrier.  They  all 
alike  were  dear  to  him,  each  in  their  own  fashion.  But  just  as  he  would 
never  have  let  Emir  or  Fingal  stand  in  the  way  of  any  serious  project 
he  had  formed  for  Olwen's  happiness,  so  he  would  never  have  let 
Olwen  herself  stand  in  the  way  of  his  own  mor{»  perious  and  deliberate 
plans  for  himself  and  Seeta^ 

So  the  months  rolled  on  ;  and  autumn  succeeded  summer  in  turn  ; 
and  tl  e  Chicheles  took  their  seaside  holiday,  and  returned  once  more  to 
Queen  Anne's  Road,  and  to  the  work  and  drudgery  of  another  session. 
Winter  came,  and  spring  in  its  wake  ;  and  still  Harry  found  Olwen  ever 
there,  a  very  solid  and  indubitable  fact,  by  no  means  inclined  to  melt 
into  mist,  and  not  in  the  least  more  likely  to  clear  the  way  for  him  and 
Seeta  than  she  had  ever  been  from  the  very  beginning  of  all  things. 
Seeta  wrote  to  her  from  time  to  time  affectionate  letters,  full  of  her  love 
and  gratitude  and  remembrances  ;  and  at  the  end  of  every  letter 
recurred  with  sickening  sameness  the  stereotyped  phrase,  "  With  very 
kind  regards  to  Dr.  Chichele."  That  was  all  !  Great  heavens,  what 
irony  1  The  romance  of  his  life,  the  dream  of  his  love,  had  faded  down 
to  that  one  pale  phrase  1     "  Very  kind  regards  to  Dr.  Chichele  !  " 

He  was  working  one  day  in  the  succeeding  summer  at  some  micoro- 
Bcropic  business  in  the  laboratory  with  All.  Germs  were  now  some- 
what at  a  discount.  By  this  time,  they  had  been  well-nigh  fairly  ex- 
ploded, and  the  famous  Chichele  hypothesis  itself  was  pretty  well  dead 
and  buried  in  oblivion.  But  other  ideas  had  cropped  up  meantime  to 
supersede  thrjm,  and  there  was  still  work  and  pay  in  plenty  for  Harry 
Chichele.  Nevertheless,  he  was  by  no  means  in  his  usual  spirits  that 
afternoon.  Things  had  been  going  but  ill  lately.  Olwen  was  sleeplesi 
and  constantly  out  of  sorts — worried  and  anxious  at  his  apparent  want 
of  affection,  he  fancied.  One  can't  be  always  at  the  very  white  heat  of 
conjugal  devotion — especially  when  you've  found  out  you  married  in 
error.  Harry  Chichele  had  long  since  made  that  disenchanting  dis- 
covery. He  took  up  listlessly  the  evening  paper  which  Lizbeth,  now 
growing  to  a  tall  and  tomparatively  well-built  girl,  brought  in  to  him 
as  it  came,  and  glancing  over  its  items  with  a  careless  eye  he  stopped  at 
last  with  a  sudden  "  Whew  ! "  and  turned  round  to  Ali  to  communicate 
something. 

'*  Here's  grist  for  the  mill,"  he  cried  with  a  somewhat  awkward  little 
laugh.  "  Listen  here,  Ali ;  what  do  you  say  to  this  ?  *  Suspicious  Epi- 
demic in  Bermondsey  and  Rotherhithe — We  learn  with  regret  that 
several  cases  of  what  is  declared  by  high  medical  authority  ' — meaning, 
of  course,  the  local  practitioner,  poor  penniless  devil  1 — '  to  be  an  aggra- 
vated form  of  Asiatic  cholera  have  occurred  during  the  last  two  days 
among  the  foreign  sailors  who  crowd  the  low  lodging-houses  in  Ber- 
mondsey and  Rotherhithe.  Where  is  Professor  Chichele,  we  wonder  1 
Now,  we  venture  to  say,  is  the  time  for  testing  the  value  of  his  much- 
vaunted  inoculation  process.  With  the  present  high  temperature  and 
sultry  weather,  all  suspicious  cases  should  be  carefully  watched  by  the 
•anitary  authorities.      An  epidemic  under  such  conditions' — and  so 


THS  devil's  dis.  143 

forth,  and  so  forth,  with  the  usual  talkee-talkee.  We  must  inquire  into 
this,  of  course,  All.  It  means  work  for  you  and  me.  I'll  go  down  to 
Bermondsey  as  soon  as  ever  I've  finished  this  preparation.  Here  you, 
Lizbeth  ;  run  out  for  a  hansom  1 " 

Lizbeth  nodded  and  disappeared  like  lightning.  Harry  went  on 
fiddling  cautiously  with  his  preparation,  while  he  kept  an  eye  on  the 
paper  at  the  same  time,  propped  up  between  two  bottles  on  the  labora- 
tory table.  •'  There's  another  item  in  our  way,  too,"  he  continued  after 
a  moment's  pause.  "  1  see  they've  caught  that  poor  unfortunate  Salis- 
bury murderer  fellow.  Never  saw  anything  clumsier  in  the  way  of  a 
murder  in  all  my  life.  The  poor  man  gave  the  girl  antimony  enough  to 
stock  a  churchyard.  Great  lumbering  idiot,  I'm  sorry  for  him,  any- 
how. The  contents  of  the  stomach  consist  literally  of  hardly  anything 
but  tartar  emetic.  Absurd  1  Absurd  1  What  asses  these  men  are, 
really  1  But  I'm  sorry  they  caught  him,  for  all  that.  He  made  such  a 
plucky  fight  for  life.  They've  taken  him  at  last  in  an  open  boat  off  the 
Kerry  coast,  trying  to  row  across  the  Channel  to  Brittany  1  Pity  he 
should  have  let  the  police  outwit  him:  after  his  bold  strike  for  freedom 
at  Dublin.  One's  sympathies  always  go  with  the  hunted.  And,  be- 
sides, she  led  him  such  a  life,  they  say.  You  can't  wonder  a  man  who's 
married  to  a  nagging  devil  like  that  sometimes  gives  it  up  in  utter  des- 
pair, and  puts  an  end  at  once  to  his  tormentor  by  a  trifling  dose  of 
poison.  But  antimony,  of  all  things  in  the  world  I  And  a  bucketful 
of  that  1    So  vulgar  !    So  stupid  1    So  obvious  !    So  easily  detected  I " 

*' It's  one  of  the  great  safeguard's  for  the  sanctity  of  human  life," 
Mohammad  Ali  observed  watching  the  Englishman  hard  with  a  closer 
and  more  cat-like  scrutiny  than  ever,  "  that  most  murderers  are  ignor- 
ant fools  who  don't  know  how  to  conceal  their  criminal  practices.  The 
misfortune  is,  that  some  able  and  instructed  men  are  murderously  in- 
clined too,  and  that  these  can  often  escape  even  the  shadow  of  suspicion 
through  their  acquired  skill  and  their  professional  knowledge.  But 
sooner  or  later,  I  believe,  their  sin  always  finds  them  out ;  some  person 
whom  they  have  never  themselves  suspected,  suspects  them  and  watches 
them,  and  brings  their  guilt  home  to  them  after  many  days — or  weeks, 
or  months,  or  years  even." 

Harry  looked  up  with  a  sharp  quick  turn  of  the  head  at  Ali 
"There's a  precious  lot  of  rubbish  talked  everywhere,"  he  said  tartly, 
**  about  this  so-called  sanctity  of  human  life  and  the  utter  certainty  of 
the  discovery  of  murder.  Pure  artificial  bolstering  up  of  the  conventional 
morality — that's  what  I  call  it.  Murder  will  out,  they  say — of  course 
it  will,  my  dear  fellow,  when  it's  done  so  clumsily  that  everybody  can 
see  at  a  glance  it's  murder.  But  how  about  the  thousand  and  one  gentle 
removals  which  must  always  be  happening,  but  which  never  come  out 
as  murders  at  all  ? — the  removals  so  carefully  and  dexterously  planned 
that  not  one  soul  on  earth,  however  sharp-eyed,  even  dreams  of  suspect- 
ing them  for  anything  but  natural  deaths  ?  You  talk  like  a  child,  I 
assure  you,  Ali,  not  like  a  man  and  a  doctor  of  science,  as  you  really 
are.  Murders  are  just  like  everything  else.  Sometimes  they're  dis- 
covexed,  and  sometimes  they're  not,     Fools  get  found  out,  or  rim  to 


144  THB  detil'i  dik. 

barth,  or  blab  on  themselves — wise  men  keep  their  own  counsel. 
That's  just  about  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

*'  'Ansom,  sir,"  Lizbeth  said,  popping  in  her  head  at  the  half-open 
door  with  a  sudden  jerk,  and  interrupting  her  master.  Harry  checked 
his  eloquent  harangue,  laid  down  his  microscope  slides  at  once  in  haste, 
and,  taking  his  hat,  went  out  to  the  hansom.  All  looked  after  him  in 
doubt  and  hesitation. .   Could  any  more  evil  be  brewing  for  Olwen  ? 

Just  before  dinner  the  Englishman  returned  once  more,  in  excellent 
spirits,  with  three  little  phials  in  his  gloved  hand,  carefully  corked  and 
disinfected. 

''What  do  you  think  of  it?"  Mohammad  All  asked,  ft  trifle 
anxiously. 

*'  Think  ?  Oh,  well,  they're  capital  cases.  I'm  awfully  glad  I  went 
to  see  them.  Wouldn't  have  missed  them  for  fifty  pounds.  Doubtfully 
Asiatic,  but  distinctly  virulent.  I've  got  a  lot  of  germs  here,  selected 
from  three  distinct  localities.  One  of  them's  a  Levantine  sailor  at  Ro- 
therhithe — he's  magnificent ;  one's  a  Lascar  from  a  slum  at  Wapping 
— extremely  interesting  ;  and  one's  Spanish,  from  a  Malaga  brig  at  the 
Pool  by  the  Tower — as  near  Asiatic  as  you  can  go  without  gutting  it. 
I'm  going  to  compare  them  with  the  mitigated  Polperrans,  and  the 
original  Santanders,  this  very  minute,  as  well  as  with  those  Algerian 
cases  of  Pasteur's  that  he  sent  me  yesterday.  Lizbeth,  hand  over  the 
microscope  on  the  table  here,  will  you  ?  New  germs  to  the  fore  ;  all 
alive  and  kicking  ?  " 

Lizbeth  brought  forward  the  instrument  sedulously,  and  stood  watch- 
ing the  adjustment  with  all  the  interest  of  an  experienced  connoisseur. 
When  Harry  Chichele  had  looked  himself  at  the  first  specimep .  and 
allowed  Mohammad  Ali  to  peep  for  a  minute  or  two,  he  motioned  Liz- 
beth silently  with  his  hand  to  take  her  turn  at  inspecting  the  new- 
comers. Lizbeth  gazed  at  them  long  and  lovingly.  Then  she  said  in 
a  very  decided  voice,  with  her  eyes  still  steadily  fixed  on  the  eye-piece, 
*'  Them's  not  Asiatic  1  Not  a  bit  like  it !  I  should  call  'em  more  in 
the  way  of  English  cholerer,  I  should.  There  ain't  a  single  well-made 
commer-shaped  among  'em,  anywheres.  Real  Asiatic  always  'as  a  big 
round  'ead,  and  a  little  twisty  tail  like  a  tadpole's,  a-squirmin'  and 
wrigglin'  up  and  down  behind  'em." 

^You're  quite  right,  Lizbeth,"  Harry  Chichele  answered,  with 
evident  pride  in  hie  protege's  proficiency.  *' They're  not  Asiatic — not 
genuine  orientals.  But  they're  good  enough  for  an  English  epidemic, 
'anyhow.  I  haven't  seen  anything  so  vigorous  or  virulent  for  a  very 
long  time.  I  was  quite  delighted  when  I  got  that  lot.  They're  as 
lively  as  grigs  and  as  jolly  as  sandboys,  under  the  microscope,  aren'l 
they  ? " 

"  And  the  patient  ?"  Mohammad  Ali  asked  suggestively. 

*'  The  patient  ? "  Harry  echoed  with  careless  unconcern,  »■  who 
■hould  suddenly  have  his  attention  called  to  a  perfectly  unimportant 
side-issue  of  the  case  under  consideration.  "Oh,  the  patient's  dead, 
of  course  ;  dead  as  a  door  nail ;  died  while  I  waited  ;  simply  eaten  up 

ilj^^rnaU^  with  th^ee  lively  little  creaturei.    They  positircdy  iwitfiaed, 


THB  DEYIL'S   dim.  H5 

and  hustled,  and  thronged  in  every  part  of  his  infested  body.  Never 
saw  such  a  deluge  in  all  my  life.  Virulent  I  I  should  say  so  !  A  drop 
of  that  stuflF  on  the  slide  this  moment  would  go  further  than  a  whole 
bottlef  ul  of  best  prussic  acid. " 

As  he  spoke,  he  poured  a  little  of  the  infusion  into  a  clean  watch- 
glass,  and  writing  a  label  on  a  slip  of  gummed  paper,  fastened  it  on 
the  back  with  a  clear  inscription,  "  No.  1,  Levantine  sailor  in  lodging- 
house  at  Rotherhithe."  Lizbeth  received  the  glass  obediently  from 
his  hands,  and  with  grave  care  placed  it  on  the  accustomed  experi- 
mental shelf,  where  new  bacteria  were  always  deposited,  while  Harry 
proceeded  with  equal  minuteness  to  examine  in  detail  all  the  other 
specimens. 

He  paused  after  a  moment,  and  looked  up  once  more.  *'  Olwen's 
still  terribly  sleepless,  Ali,"  he  said  casually. 

*'  The  morphia  doesn't  do  her  any  good,  does  it  ?  "  Ali  asked  with  a 
quiet  sigh. 

"  Not  the  least  good.  It  seems  almost  to  have  lost  ita  power.  I've 
been  injecting  very  strong  lots  for  nights  past,  but  I  must  double  the 
dose  if  she's  to  get  any  rest.  She's  troubled  and  tried.  I'm  afraid 
she's  been  over-tasked  and  over-excited  lately." 


CHAPTER  XXVU. 

All  the  next  morning,  Mohammad  Ali  uotfced  that  Harry  Chichele 
seemed  exceptionally  grave,  taciturn,  and  pre-occupied.  He  mooned 
about  among  the  bottles  and  test-tubes  with  the  air  of  a  man  whose 
mind  is  quite  otherwise  engaged  than  his  body.  Ali  had  seen  him  so 
but  once  before  ;  and  even  Lizbeth  dimly  remembered  the  mood  as 
familiar.  The  precedent  was  a  fateful  one.  It  had  been  on  the  day 
preceding  the  one  when  the  woman  Wilcox,  Lizbeth's  mother,  died 
suddenly  in  her  cot  at  Regent's  Park  Hospital. 

Surely,  thought  Mohammad  Ali  to  himself,  the  man  must  mean 
mischief. 

Outwardly  calm  and  grave,  indeed,  Harry  Chichele's  mind  was 
inwardly  perturbed  with  a  fierce  storm  of  conflicting  emotions.  For 
this  step  that  he  was  contemplating  darkly  in  his  soul  now  was  of  a 
very  diflferent  sort  from  the  '*  little  episode  "  of  other  days  ;  a  sort  that 
might  make  even  the  emancipated  and  philosophic  mind  debate  and 
reflect  with  itself  somewhat  before  venturing  to  plunge  into  definite 
action.  A  miserable,  bloated,  drunken  woman — yes,  yes,  that  was  all 
very  well  in  its  way  I  But  this  time  !  This  time  I  Ah,  so  difierent 
this  time  1    Harry  hardly  cared  himself  to  face  it. 

01  wen  had  received  a  letter  from  Seeta  Mayne  that  very  mo  rning — 
a  letter  with  some  passing  gleam  of  hope  in  it  for  Harry,  Distanc* 
imd  time  had  mitigat$4  Seeta  b  fears  to  hers^  and  of  him  |  she  had  iif 

m 


14  THI  devil's  DIB. 

far  melted  as  to  say  this  time,  "  Give  my  kindest  remembrances  to 
your  dear  husband,  and  tell  him  I  often  live  over  again  the  happy  days 
we  three  once  spent  together  at  Cannes  and  at  dear  old  Hampstead." 
It  was  more  than  she  had  ever  before  permitted  herself  to  say  about 
him,  and  it  had  set  Harry's  heart  throbbing  violently  with  the  dim  and 
futile  hope  of  yet  some  day  reseeing  Seeta. 

*'  Never,  never  1  While  Olwen  lives  you  shall  never  touch  them  !  " 
How  often  he  had  pursed  up  his  lips  in  fancy,  and  said  those  words 
over  again  to  himself  I  What  terrible  comfort  they  seemed  to  bring 
to  him.     "  While  Olwen  lives."     What  a  merciful  proviso  ! 

In  the  corner  of  the  laboratory,  when  Mohammad  Ali  was  not  looking, 
he  took  out  that  day  from  his  watch-pocket  the  little  gold  locket  that 
Olwen  had  given  him  when  they  were  first  married.  He  opened  it, 
and  looked  at  the  face  in  the  front.  It  was  Olwen's  face,  pretty  little 
Olwen's — a  tender,  simple,  wifely  small  face,  but  with  nothing  of  soul 
or  grandeur  in  it,  he  said  to  himself  vaguely,  to  bind  and  satisfy  such 
a  man  as  he  was.  Then  he  dived  with  his  hands  into  his  pocket  once 
more,  and,  furtively  glancing  around,  pulled  out  his  penknife.  With 
the  small  blade  he  egged  out  of  the  locket  its  inner  gold  frame,  and 
displayed  behind  it  another  photograph — the  photograph  of  a  proud, 
imperious  woman,  of  clear-cut  features  and  high  white  forehead — a 
woman  with  splendid  large  grey  eyes,  full  of  unspeakable  thought  and 
majesty — a  wonian  whom  painters  and  poets  had  flattered  to  the  full 
with  brush  and  with  pen — a  woman  to  love,  and  to  live  and  die  for — a 
woman  for  whose  sake  many  a  man  that  day  would  gladly  have  faced 
and  endured  the  unutterable.  She  might  have  been  his,  and  now — he 
was  Olwen's  1  He  pressed  his  mouth  to  the  cold,  hard  glass  that  cruelly 
covered  them.  "  Never,  never  ;  while  Olwen  lives  1  "  The  words 
seemed  to  echo  like  a  death-knell  through  his  brain.  But  whose 
death-knell  ?  He  shut  the  locket  again  with  a  sharp  little  snap.  The 
die  was  cast.  This  time,  in  his  haste,  he  had  left  Seeta's  portrait  outer- 
most by  accident 

For  months  he  had  carried  that  locket  at  his  breast.  To  all  outer 
seeming  it  was  Olwen's  portrait.  But  Olwen's  portrait  was  merely  a 
blind.  In  the  very  background  and  rear  of  all,  Seeta's  proud  face  lay 
ever  next  his  heart,  concealed  and  masked  only  by  Olwen's.  Now,  he 
had  inadvertently  thrown  off  the  mask.  The  face  that  showed  in  front 
that  day  was  Seeta's — Seeta's. 

He  replaced  the  locket  hastily,  with  a  sigh,  in  his  fob.  Was  it  mere 
fancy,  or  did  he  really  observe  that  Mohammad  Ali,  engaged  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room  at  a  big  glass  retort,  with  his  back  turned,  was  steal 'inly 
watching  his  reflection  in  its  bowl,  and  dotectinji  tlie  damnator}  ittle 
incident  of  the  portrait  ?  It  was  clear  he  must  be  very  carefu  now, 
for  Ali  was  watching  him.     A  dangerous  man  to  reckon  with,  Ali. 

How  that  terrible  design  had  first  taken  sliajjo  in  Harry  Chichele's 
own  mind  he  himself  could  hardly  have  said.  It  grew  up,  no  doubt, 
by  slow  degrees,  from  natural  half-hints  and  vague  foreshadowinijs, 
till,  like  some  fungoid  growth,  it  Sv  mod  at  last  to  usurp  and  absorb 
hia  whole  brain,  to  overshadow  and  tiWf^Uow  up  his  entire  natu?tt.     It 


THE  detil's  oib.       •  147 

had  begun  with  the  purest  abstract  speculation — if  only  Olwen  were 
removed  from  his  path !  There  is  ne  harm  in  anticipating  contingencies. 
It  had  gone  on  next  to  calculation  of  chances — Olwen  might  possibly 
drop  out  quietly  in  this,  that,  or  the  other  conceivable  fashion.  People 
die  so  often  of  disease  or  accident.  It  had  come  at  last  to  deliberate 
contrivances — Olwen  must  be  got  rid  of  at  all  hazards.  A  terrible 
declension,  too  ghastly  and  fatal  for  most  of  us  even  to  realize ;  but 
natural,  consistent,  nay,  even  inevitable  to  such  a  warped  and  twisted 
idiosyncrasy  as  Harry  Chichele's. 

He  lounged  over  to  the  window,  as  if  by  accident,  and  began  wash- 
ing out  a  little  pipette,  such  as  doctors  use  for  injecting  morphia.  It 
was  important  that  everything  should  be  done  openly  and  above-board 
— that  there  should  not  bo  in  any  way  the  faintest  pretence  of  secrecy 
or  concealment,  the  merest  shadow  of  suspicion  about  all  his  acts ; 
especially  with  such  a  fellow  as  Ali  watching  him.  Ali  might  guess  a 
great  deal,  indeed — much  good  in  guessing  with  our  English  jury  sys- 
tem— but  he  should  know  nothing — nothing  on  earth  upon  which  to 
found  even  a  tangible  rumour,  a  libel  worth  inquiring  into.  He  would 
be  forced  to  keep  his  doubts,  if  he  had  any,  in  his  own  breast,  as  he 
had  done  already,  Harry  well  knew,  in  the  forgotten  case  of  the  woman 
Wilcox.  The  man  of  science  smiled  to  himself  a  quiet  smile  of  calm 
superiority  as  he  thought  of  the  clumsy,  blundering,  dunder-headed 
attempts  of  mere  vulgar  everyday  unscientific  assassins,  like  the  man 
who  was  caught  oflF  the  coast  of  Kerry.  The  telltale  blood-stains,  the 
knife  or  pistol  purchased  openly  at  a  shop  three  days  before  using  it, 
the  empty  phial  that  held  the  poison,  the  accusing  evidence  of  the 
chemist'^  assistant,  the  stealthy  preparations,  the  carefully-planned 
flight  that  betrays  itself  at  last  by  its  silly  complexity  1  How  empty 
and  puerile  they  all  seemed,  to  be  sure  1  How  diflferent  from  the  cool 
and  masterly  simplicity  with  which  a  great  thinker  lays  his  plans  and 
carries  out  his  schemes  to  a  successful  termination  !  He  hugged  him- 
self with  delight  and  pride  at  the  thought  of  his  own  open  and  unaffected 
frankness  t 

Detection  was  impossible  !  Absolutely  impossible  1  The  acutest 
physician  that  ever  breathed  could  never  bring  his  contemplated  crime 
fairly  home  to  him.  The  keenest  lawyer  that  ever  held  a  brief  could 
never  discover  one  single  atom  of  compromising  evidence.  The  cause 
of  death — if  the  patient  died — would  be  certified  as  from  purely  natural 
causes.  He  defied  post-mortems  and  coroner's  inquests,  and  all  the 
other  inane  formalities  by  which  offended  justice  endeavours  to  fasten 
the  guilt  of  murder  upon  the  assassin's  shoulders.  His  method  would 
leave  not  a  trace  behind.  In  its  way,  it  was  simply  a  perfect  adaptation 
of  means  to  an  end,  a  supreme  triumph  of  modern  applied  pathological 
knowledge. 

Yet,  for  all  that,  his  fingers  trembled  with  unwonted  anxiety  as  he 
washed  and  cleaned  out  the  little  pipette,  the  intended  instrument  of 
his  hideous  purpose. 

Mohammad  Ali  wat<;hed  him  all  the  time  in  profound  silence,  bmt 
with  unceasing  vigilance.    Harry  was  aware  that  the  Indian's  eyes 


148  THB  DEYIL'8  DIB. 

were  intently  fixed  upon  his  tremulous  fingers.  He  knew  the  Indian 
could  see  how  they  trembled.  But  he  wiped  the  pipette  on  a  clean 
cambric  handkerchief  with  the  most  scrupulous  care,  and  said  abruptly 
in  a  careless  tone,  "  01  wen  had  another  very  bad  night  last  night,  I'm 
sorry  to  say.  She  seems  to  have  fallen  into  a  thoroughly  sleepless  and 
nervous  condition.  I  hope  it  isn't  going  to  become  chronic.  I  mean 
to  check  this  growing  tendency  to  insomnia  before  it  goes  any  further 
than  it's  gone  already.  I  shall  give  her  a  rousing  strong  dose  this 
evening.  Poor  child,  she's  been  suffering  terribly  of  late  from  her 
spell  of  wakefulness." 

Did  he  mean,  by  accident,  to  give  her  an  overdose  of  morphia? 
Mohammad  Ali  wondered.  No,  no :  impossible  ;  too  commonplace  ; 
too  clumsy ;  that  wasn't  fine  enough  for  Harry  Chichele's  subtle  and 
acute  intelligence.  Such  an  accident  as  that  would  be  culpably  negli- 
gent. The  physician  who  commits  an  error  of  equal  magnitude  in  the 
case  of  his  own  wife,  cuts  his  own  throat,  both  professionally  and 
socially.  No  doctor  dare  venture  on  such  an  attempt.  Harry  Chichele, 
meaning  to  get  rid  of  01  wen  in  order  to  marry  Seeta  Mayne — for 
Mohammad  Ali,  driven  to  bay,  fairly  faced  the  problem  in  its  full 
ugliness — would  be  scrupulously  careful  to  avoid  the  very  shadow  of 
professional  suspicion.     He   would  steer  clear  of  prescriptions  and 

f)oisons.  He  would  keep  himself  well  beyond  the  reach,  not  only  of 
aw,  but  of  scandal  and  gossip.  He  would  allow  no  handle  to  shrugs 
and  innuendoes  and  whispered  hints.  He  would  see  that  Seeta  suf- 
fered no  harm  ;  that  candour  itself — the  leering,  sneering,  shoulder- 
shrugging  candour  of  our  cruel  cynical  modern  society — should  never 
be  able  to  mutter  under  its  breath  that  the  first  Mrs.  Chichele  disap- 
peared from  the  scene  at  a  most  convenient  juncture  in  a  most  curious, 
questionable,  and  unsatisfactory  manner.  Mohammad  Ali  knew  Harry 
Chichele  well  enough  to  know  that  though  he  was  a  villain  he  was  no 
fool.     He  would  not  sacrifice  Seeta  as  well  as  01  wen. 

Yet  the  Indian  could  only  fight  Olwen's  battle  against  the  husband 
who  he  knew  in  his  heart  desired  to  get  rid  of  lier,  by  watching  and 
waiting,  not  by  open  warfare.  To  speak  to  the  police  would  have  been 
worse  than  childish.  He  was  driven  by  circumstances  into  ambush 
and  stratagem.  His  instincts  told  him,  and  correctly  told  him,  that 
Harry  Chichele  was  planning  foul  play.  But  if  he  had  imparted  his 
Busj)icions  to  any  one  else  in  all  England,  they  would  only  have  laughed 
at  him  for  a  romantic  idiot.  What  possible  evidence  had  he  to  allege  1 
None,  none,  absolutely  none — save  the  intangible  evidence  of  his  own 
keen  and  rapid  oriental  intuitions.  The  imputation  would  have  seemed 
to  anyone  but  himself  too  monstrous  to  be  ever  taken  into  serious  con- 
sideration. So  his  hands  were  tied.  Recognizing  the  danger,  he  could 
yet  do  little  or  nothing  to  avert  it.  He  could  only  watch,  and  wait, 
and  scrutinize.  As  ever,  he  must  stand  by  while  the  drama  of  life 
unfolded  itself  passively  before  his  attentive  eyes.  Kismet,  kismet ;  it 
was  all  fated.  Always  fate  ;  that  dreaded  destiny.  The  devil's  die 
had  been  cast  long  i  inoe.  Would  the  devil  win  ?  Or  Mohammad  and 
Olwtfn? 


TBI  DETIL'8  DIl.  149 

Harry's  eyes  wandered  along  the  shelves  aimlessly.  They  fell  at  last 
apon  the  three  watch-glasses  that  contained  the  germs  he  had  brought 
back  from  his  journey  to  the  east-end  the  previous  evening.  A  faint 
gleam  of  satisfaction  lighted  up  his  face  as  his  glance  rested  upon  them 
for  half  a  second  fitfully  in  passing.  He  toyed  carelessly  with  the 
pipette  in  his  trembling  fingers.  Then  his  gaze  moved  on  as  aimless 
as  before.  Mohammad  Ali,  keener  even  than  his  wont,  noted,  and 
jumped  at  the  truth  instinctively.  An  answering  gleam  flashed  tiger- 
like and  fierce  from  his  jet-black  and  eager  oriental  eyes.  He  followed 
Harry  with  his  gaze  as  a  snake  follows  the  movements  of  its  destined 
victim.  His  cue  was  gained.  He  had  the  man  fairly  in  his  grasp  now ; 
and  all  the  latent  intensity  of  his  Arab  nature — implacable  and  remorse- 
less in  its  righteous  wrath — shone  forth  with  awful  and  unmistakable 
clearness  on  every  feature  of  his  handsome  countenance.  Olwen  was 
saved  and  Harry  foiled.  He  would  drive  the  man  to  bay  1  He  would 
hold  him  in  check  !  He  would  force  his  hand  1  He  would  show  the 
criminal  he  was  detected  and  overmastered  ! 

But  not  openly  !  Not  openly  1  For  Olwen's  sake,  he  would  not 
drive  Harry  to  sheer  desperation.  That  would  defeat  Ali's  own  end. 
He  would  only  prove  to  him  by  overt  signs  that  he  knew  the  truth,  and 
that  the  truth  was  undeniable  ;  and  then  he  would  leave  the  baffled 
wretch  to  his  own  guilty  conscience,  to  make  Olwen,  if  he  could,  as 
happy  as  anything  could  now  make  her.  He  didn't  want  to  drag 
Harry  to  justice — that  would  break  poor  Olwen's  tender  heart.  He 
didn't  want  to  egg  him  on  into  suicide  or  flight — that  would  still  cause 
her  unnecessary  anguish.  He  didn't  want  Olwen  ever  to  learn  the 
hideous  truth — that  would  break  her  dream  with  a  rude  awakening, 
and  reveal  to  her  the  utter  baseness  and  cruelty  of  the  man  she  still 
tried  with  feminine  earnestness  of  purpose  to  love  and  to  honour.  He 
only  wanted  to  let  Harry  see  that  he  knew  all,  and  that  he  could  prove 
all  to  Seeta  if  he  were  so  minded.  That  would  give  him  a  check,  and 
a  check  on  Harry  was  all  Mohammad  Ali  wanted. 

Lunch  time  came,  and  they  both  left  the  laboratory  together.  Harry 
went  in  to  lunch  with  Olwen.  Mohammad  Ali  declined  his  casual 
invitation  ;  he  preferred  to  go  home,  he  said,  to  his  ov  lodgings.  He 
waited  for  a  while  till  Harry  had  finally  disappeared.  Then,  with 
stealthy  steps  he  hurried  back,  when  Harry  was  well  gone,  to  the 
empty  room.  To  such  painful  straits  had  the  circumstances  of  very 
need  reduced  him.  The  intending  criminal  was  taking  all  his  steps  in 
the  frankest  and  most  open  fashion  possible.  The  guardian  of  right 
and  justice  was  compelled  in  turn  to  track  him  by  mean  and  under- 
hand means,  and  have  recourse  to  depths  of  vulgar  deception  for  th« 
sake  of  countermining  hira. 

Queen  Anne's  Road  lies  in  a  very  retired  part  of  Hampstead,  backed 
up  by  a  lane  which  gives  entry  to  the  yards  and  gardens  in  the  rear  ; 
&nd  tilie  laboratory  was  built  apart  from  the  house,  for  puroosea  of 
•afetv,  its  windows  abutting  on  this  blind  alley.  It  had  at  the  side  • 
imall  dark  chamber,  used  for  developing  those  particular  germs  which 
will  not  thrive  under  the  influence  of  sunlight. 


150  THE  DEYIL'S  DIB. 

An  honest  man  can  do  nothing  by  stealth  withf)ut  feeling  guilty.  Mo- 
hammad Ali  felt  guilty  indeed  as  he  crept  back  into  the  deserted  labora- 
tory, and  went  up  to  the  three  suspected  watch-glasses.  In  breath- 
less haste  he  boiled  some  water  in  a  glass  globe,  and  holding  them  above 
it,  began  to  steam  off  the  manuscript  labels  which  Harry  had  written 
and  pasted  on  their  backs.  It  would  have  been  shorter,  of  course,  to 
wash  them  thoroughly,  and  to  fill  them  up  again  with  pure  water  ;  but 
Mohammad  Ali  was  afraid  even  so  of  the  virus— a  single  germ  left 
uiikilled  on  the  glass  and  floating  in  the  water  would  suffice  to  com- 
municate to  Olwen  any  disease  so  infectious  and  virulent  as  these 
oriental  epidemics.  Besides,  he  wished  to  keep  the  morbid  infusions 
themselves  as  evidence  of  Harry's  evil  intent,  in  case  he  found  it  need- 
ful to  bring  the  charge  home  to  him.  So  he  took  off  the  labels  care- 
fully with  steam,  gummed  them  on  three  new  clean  watch-glasses, 
filled  these  last  to  exactly  the  same  height  with  distilled  water,  and 
replaced  them  once  more  on  the  experimental  shelf.  The  dangerous 
infusions  he  removed  to  his  own  special  table  in  the  laboratory,  where 
only  he  himself  was  every  permitted  to  meddle,  and  numbered  them 
afresh  in  his  own  handwriting.  That  done,  he  breathed  freely  at  last. 
If  Harry  tried  to  poison  Olwen  now  with  germs  of  disease  injected  into 
her  arm  in  place  of  morphia,  he  would  only  succeed  in  giving  her,  at 
worst,  a  little  harmless  dose  of  distilled  water. 

But  Ali  wanted  to  do  something  more  than  that :  he  wanted  to  nail 
Harry  down  to  the  deliberate  attempt  to  poison  his  wife  in  a  way  which 
could  leave  no  possible  or  recognizable  trace  behind.  Running  his  eye 
over  the  bottles  in  the  row  opposite  him,  the  Indian  stopped  short, 
abruptly,  at  last,  at  the  one  labelled  in  gold  letters,  *'  Santonin." 
*'  The  very  thing,"  he  thought  to  himself,  with  a  flash  of  intuition. 
*'  Injected  under  the  skin,  it  brings  on  a  temporary  dimness  of  sight 
for  a  few  hours,  succeeded  by  a  short  fit  of  colour-blindness,  and  is  other- 
wise harmless.  If  I  put  a  few  minims  of  that  into  the  watch-glasses — 
and  if  Harry  does  as  I  think  he  means  to  do — Mrs.  Chichele  will  com- 
plain to-morrow  of  the  symptoms  of  santonin  poisoning,  and  I  shall  be 
able  to  say  to  him,  'There  I  outwitted  you.'"  He  took  the  bottle 
down,  and  dropped  a  drop  or  two  of  the  harmless  mixture  into  each 
watch-glass.  Then,  hastily  and  stealthily  as  he  entered  the  room,  he 
glided  baok  again,  and  went  off  to  lunch  at  his  own  lodgings. 

Olwen  was  saved,  and  Harry  outwitted  1 
At  least,  80  Mohammad  Ali  reckoned. 

But,  as  he  shut  the  laboratory  door  behind  him,  Lizbeth,  silent  and 
stealthy  as  himself,  stole  out,  with  a  cunning  smile  on  her  sharp  small 
face,  from  the  deep  shadow  of  the  dark  chamber.  Sus])iciou8  aa  ever, 
■he  had  crept  in  there  to  watch  Mohamniad  Ali  with  her  keen,  small 
eyes,  through  the  crack  of  the  door,  as  closely  as  Ali  himself  had 
watched  Harry  Chichele  ;  and  now  she  was  asking  herself  in  her  quaiiil 
knowing  way  what  harm  the  Blackamoor  could  posnibly  have  been  brow 
ing  among  them  there  bacteria.     She  felt  quite  cert&io  he  was  up  to  no 


THI   devil's  DIB.  151 

good.  A  man  who  makes  his  entry  noiselessly  into  an  expec'.mental 
laboratory,  treading  on  tiptoe,  who  misplaces  and  ungums  the  author- 
ized labels,  puts  everything  hsLck  on  the  wrong  shelf,  and  generally 
plays  havoc  with  constituted  arrangements,  must  clearly  be  bent  upon 
•ome  kind  of  mischief.  Sfie  put  put  him  up  to  it,  Lizbeth  didn't  doubt. 
He  was  always  for  her  and  always  again'  Aim,  the  nasty  warmint.  What 
right  had  the  Blackamoor,  Lizbeth  would  like  to  know,  to  come  skul- 
kin'  rouud  there,  mix  in'  and  meddlin'  ?  She'd  teach  the  man  to  let 
folks'  things  alone  !  Serve  him  right  if  he  was  to  get  took  with  the 
germs  hisself,  for  trying  to  muddle  up  people's  eppidemmicks.  But 
she'd  seen  what  he'd  done  with  every  germ  Jack  of  'em,  and  she  wasn't 
going  to  let  Harry  Chichele'sj  interests  fail  for  want  of  proper  and 
efficient  looking  after. 

With  which  reflections  more  or  less  consciously  floating  through  her 
mind,  Lizbeth  lighted  the  gas-stove  at  her  leisure  once  more,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  boil  a  second  lot  of  distilled  water  in  the  glass  globe,  for  her 
own  wise  and  sufficient  purposes. 

Plot  and  counterplot ;  the  London  Arab  against  the  Arab  of  the  East. 
Lizbeth  backed  herself  to  outwit  the  Blackamoor. 

At  ten  that  night  Harry  Chichele  went  down  to  the  laboratory  alone, 
to  fetch  the  pipette,  he  said,  and  some  morphia  for  Olwen.  Strange  to 
say,  however,  he  didn't  fill  the  pipette  from  the  ordinary  morphia 
bottle ;  he  filled  it  instead  from  an  experimental  watch-glass  on  his 
own  special  sholf,  distinctly  labelled  in  his  own  handwriting,  *'  Sus- 
pected cholera  germs  :  No.  1.  Levantine  sailor  in  lodging-house  at 
Rotherhithe."  Of  that,  three  people  were  perfectly  certain.  All  three 
could  have  taken  their  oath  upon  it.  The  first,  was  Harry  Chichele 
himself,  who  was  particularly  careful  to  make  quite  sure  about  so  awful 
and  momentuous  a  crises  of  his  life — and  Seeta'a.  The  second  waa 
Mohammad  Ali,  who,  crouching  against  the  window  in  the  back  yard 
by  the  blind  alley,  where  he  had  crouched  already  in  waitmg  for  more 
than  two  hours,  peered  straight  in  round  the  edge  of  the  blind  upon 
Harry  Chichele,  the  candle  in  his  hand,  and  read  with  his  keen  oriental 
glance  the  very  words  of  the  false  label  on  that  harmless  decuction  of 
santonin  and  water  which  he  himself  had  substituted  for  the  deadly 
liquor.  The  third  was  Lizbeth,  who  lurked  once  more  in  the  dai  k 
compartment,  watched  with  keen  and  chuckling  interest  the  gradual 
unfolding  of  this  mysterious  drama.  She  didn't  know  for  her  part 
what  it  all  meant ;  but  she  knew  it  was  a  game  of  plot  and  counterplot 
between  the  doctor  and  the  Blackamoor,  and  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  back  the  doctor,  and  to  see  the  Blackamoor  finally  check- 
mated. 

It  was  with  a  beating  heart,  two  minutes  later,  that  Harry  went  up 
to  the  drawing-room,  pipette  in  hand,  bared  Olwen's  arm,  ai  usual,  aa 
far  as  the  elbow,  and  pufhing  the  instrument  into  a  tiny  wound  in  the 
delicate  white  skin,  injecting  its  contents  with  a  faint  shudder  into  a 
minor  artery.  At  the  moment  itself,  remurse  and  horror  almost  held 
back  his  guilty  hand  ;  he  knew  himself  for  a  vile  and  unnatural  amr- 


152  THE  DSTIL'I  Dia 

derer  ;  the  room  reeled  and  swam  around  him  ;  but  for  yerj  safety  he 
dared  not  now  recoil.  He  pushed  in  the  cylinder  with  trembling  hands. 
The  die  once  more  was  irrevocably  cast.  The  devil  had  conquered.  In 
intent,  at  least,  Harry  Chichele  was  a  second  time  a  murderer. 

*'  It  doesn't  feel  like  morphia,"  Olwen  murmured  low.  *'I  think  it 
lomehow  stings  a  little." 

Harry  couid  scarcely  command  hia  voice  to  answer,  **  It's  a  new  kind. 
It'll  do  you  good,  darling.  It's  a  far  more  powerful  drug  than  the  one 
I've  been  giving  you." 

Perhaps  the  germs  would  fail  to  take.  They  often  failed,  he  knew* 
with  rabbits.  The  moment  the  deed  was  done  an  awful  revulsion  came 
over  him  at  once.  He  wasn't  quite  as  wicked  as  he  believed  himself  to 
be.  Remorse  and  agony  dried  up  his  speech.  Heaven  grant  the  germs 
might  never  live.  It  was  too  terrible.  Too  ghastly  and  cruel.  He 
shrank  himself  from  the  hideousness  of  the  crime  he  had  devised  and 
attempted  and  perhaps  carried  out  1  No,  not  carried  out.  Heaven 
grant  the  experiment  might  turn  out  a  failure. 

But  Lizbeth,  below,  in  the  back  scullery,  was  chuckling  now  to  her- 
self in  grotesque  delight  at  the  thought  how  the  Blackamoor  had  tried 
to  outwit  the  doctor,  and  how  she  in  turn  had  outwitted  the  Blacka- 
moor. 

The  germs  were  back  where  the  doctor  had  put  them. 

The  doctor  must  be  wanting  to  give  'em  to  somebody. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Across  the  Atlantic,  men  take  these  little  episodes  more  lightly. 

Eagle  City  on  the  Sunset  Lode  trail,  where  Ivan  Royle  found  himself 
for  the  time  being  in  comfortable  quarters — for  the  far  West — at  the 
National  Pacific  Union  Hotel,  was  a  perfect  type  of  those  strange  small 
settlements  which  spring  up  everywhere  on  the  extreme  frontier  of 
American  civilization  as  it  advances  westward.  Eagle  City  owed  its 
existence,  of  course,  to  what  its  handful  of  inhabitants  euphemistically 
described  as  *'  the  mining  industry."  Mining  enough  there  was,  no 
doubt,  but  of  industry  very  little  indeed  to  speak  of.  Eagle  City  con- 
sisted in  fair  proportion  of  three  hotels,  five  gambling  hells,  eight 
saloons,  one  music  hall,  two  shooting  galleries,  four  pan-stores,  and  a 
Chinese  laundry.  Its  one  long  street  was  composed  entirely  of  scat- 
tered frame  houses,  fronting  the  road  at  every  possible  angle  of  inci- 
dence. Most  of  them  were  built  in  the  sweet  simplicity  of  the  grocer's 
box  style  of  architecture,  with  roughly-painted  signs  hanging  out  in 
front,  to  let  the  world  know  whether  it  might  expect  inside  a  gun-shop, 
h  faro  bank,  a  ten-pin  alley,  a  saloon,  or  square  meals  at  reasonable 
figures.  Three  years  before  Ivan  Royle's  recent  arrival  the  sits  of 
G^gle  Cit/  had  be^a  wh»t  iti  population  loved  to  defohb«  u  **%  h^wU 


tBB  DBVIL'8  DIlL  15d 

fng  tnlderness.'*  To  lyan  Royle's  gentle  English  soul  the  howling 
appeared  really  to  begin  just  where  the  wilderness  ceased  to  exist.  For 
silver  had  been  found  in  a  neighbouring  lode,  and  the  silver  had 
attracted  to  itself,  in  due  course,  its  fair  share  of  the  squalid  and  sordid 
cosmopolitan  Demases  of  modem  society  in  their  usual  proportions. 

Eagle  City  stood  full  in  view  of  the  glorious  snow-white  mountain 
peaks,  still  covered  with  their  pall  of  virgin  purity.  Around  it  the 
forest  stretched  down  to  the  sage  desert ;  above  it  the  eternal  hills 
raised  high  to  heaven  their  dazzling  pinnacles  of  spotless  splendour. 
Silence  unbroken  reigned  everywhere  about ;  but,  in  one  short  month, 
the  silent  waste  was  transformed  as  if  by  magic  into  the  howling  wilder- 
ness of  nascent  civilization.  Cayotes  gave  place  with  startling  rapidity 
to  billiard-rooms  and  restaurants  ;  the  home  of  the  rattlesnake  yielded 
up  its  site  for  the  lurid  courts  of  the  strange  woman.  A  pioneer  town 
of  two  hundred  inhabitants,  its  gamblers  and  roughs  of  the  wildest  sort, 
prompted  only  by  the  greed  of  gain  and  bad  whisky,  made  war  upon 
each  other  there  with  loaded  dice  and  loaded  derringers.  Into  such  a 
pandemonium  of  vice,  folly,  and  the  struggle  for  gold  had  Ivan  Royle, 
the  gentle,  sweet-natured  English  artist,  flying  from  the  evil  of  his  own 
heart,  incongruously  flung  himself. 

At  a  plain  deal  table  in  the  principal  saloon  of  that  remote  town, 
which  advertised  itself  on  its  signboard  with  unblushing  blackguardism, 
as  the  "  Koad  to  Ruin,"  Ivan  Royle  sat  quietly  sketching  a  few  little 
bits  of  life  and  character  for  the  series  entrusted  to  him  by  his  illus- 
trated paper.  At  a  larger  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  motley 
collection  of  gamblers  and  miners  was  engaged  in  sipping  bad  lager 
beer,  and  dealing  out  some  very  old  and  dirty  cards  to  one  another  for 
a  game  of  poker.  At  the  head,  with  the  perennial  smile  of  his  nation- 
ality pervading  his  face,  Li  Sing,  the  Chinese  laundryman,  took  his 
part  with  the  rest  in  the  excitement  of  the  game,  and  listened,  bland 
and  smooth-faced  as  his  wont,  to  the  rippling  stream  of  conversation. 
One  of  their  number,  Chaparral  Bill,  had  just  returned  from  a  neigh- 
bouring city,  and  was  busily  retailing  his  light  experiences  there. 

•'And  what  did  Monte  Joe  say  to  that  now?"  one  of  the  listening 
miners  inquired  with  much  show  of  interest. 

"Why,  Monte  Joe,"  hu  neighbour  responded  roundly,  "he  jest 
whips  out  his  six-shooter,  and  sez,  sez  he,  *  Westward  the  star  of  empire 
takes  its  way,'  sez  he,  *and  civilization's  march  is  ever  straight  onward 
toward  the  golden  gateway  of  the  setting  sun.  If  you  mean  to  say,' 
sez  he,  '  that  Howling  Jackass,  as  a  place  of  residence,  is  fit  to  hold  a 
coal-oil  candle  to  Eagle  City,'  sez  he,  '  that's  a  question  that  can  only 
be  adequately  settled  with  the  usual  instruments.'  So  he  points  his 
shooting-iron  right  at  him,  and  covers  the  galoot  before  he  could  open 
his  blamed  mouth  to  stutter  out  an  answer.  You  should  ha'  seen  that 
critter  make  tracks  down  street !  It  was  a  sight  to  make  a  'possum 
larf,  I  can  tell  you." 

**  And  who  was  he  V  the  other  inquired. 

*'0h,  he  was  jest  a  cowboy  from  down  the  trail,  who  came  in  on  the 
high  lonesome  to  paint  the  town  red  in  the  usual  fashion ;  and  Monte 


164  THK  DEVlL'fi  Did. 

Joe,  he  had  a  few  words  with  the  high-spirited  cattle-king  about  a 
question  of  precedence  ;  and  the  end  of  it  all  was,  as  the  darned  idiot 
was  riding  his  pony  down  street  ten  minutes  later,  he  tumbled  off  right 
thar,  and  died  instantaneous,  in  a  fit  or  suthin." 

'■*  Heart  disease  1 "  one  of  the  bystanders  suggested,  ironically. 

"Don't  know  whether  you'd  call  it 'zactly  heart  disease,"  the  speaker 
continued,  draining  off  his  lager;  **but,  so  far  as  I  observed  the 
symptoms  of  his  complaint,  he  was  bleeding  profusely  from  the  right 
lung,  and  he  seemed  to  have  a  small  round  hole  'bout  the  size  of  a  der- 
ringer bullet  drilled  clean  through  him." 

*'  And  what  did  the  boys  say,  Bill  ?  " 

"Oh,  the  boys  jest  held  an  informal  inquest,  right  thar  as  the  body 
lay,  and  returned  a  verdict,  in  case  the  United  States  marshal  should 
happen  to  look  round,  'Died  of  the  effects  of  imprudently  calling 
Colonel  Joseph  Jefferson  Ridley  a  durned  liar.'  " 

**  Monte  Joe  is  a  law-abiding  man,  boys,"  Chaparral  Bill  continued 
pensively,  with  his  hand  on  the  lager  pot ;  "  but  he  thought  that  cow- 
boy was  in  questionable  taste,  and  he  emphasized  his  opinion  by  judi- 
ciously planting  a  few  bullets  where  he  thought  they  would  have  a 
mollifying  effect  upon  that  mistaken  fellow-crittur's  misplaced  enthusi- 
asm. But  he  didn't  cause  no  unnecessary  pain,  not  Joe  didn't.  That 
cowboy  dropped  right  off  his  pony  like  a  pound  o'  lead,  and  never  so 
much  as  knew  what  it  was  that  hurt  him." 

While  Bill  was  thus  entertaining  the  assembled  company  with  his 
Improving  conversation,  and  Ivan  Royle  was  quietly  sketching  him 
(rom  his  table  in  the  corner,  Li  Sing,  the  Chinaman,  after  the  manner 
if  his  race,  was  engaged  with  stolid  composure  and  unvarying  smile  in 
matching  the  pips  upon  the  cards  as  they  fell,  and  cheerfully  paying  or 
receiving  the  difference.  Li  Sing  was  in  luck  that  afternoon  ;  as  the 
aiiners  put  it  in  their  own  vocabulary,  the  cards  were  panning  out  rich 
lor  the  Chinaman  ;  and  at  each  deal  he  raked  in  his  money  and  promptly 
pocketed  it  with  a  faint  look  of  sly  exultation  obliquely  beaming  from 
the  corners  of  his  eyelids.  "  The  Chinaman's  struck  it  rich  this  time," 
one  of  the  men  muttered  grumbling  ;  "  too  much  of  a  streak  altogether 
fur  the  Mongolian.  The  Chmaman  must  go  ;  he's  getting  one  too 
strong  for  us." 

Li  Sing  smiled  as  imperturbably  as  ever,  at  this  gentle  remonstrance, 
the  meaning  of  which  he  perfectly  understood,  and  proceeded  to  deal 
ou«^  a  fresh  deal  from  the  greasy  pack  he  held  in  his  fingers. 

At  tnat  very  moment  one  of  the  burly  miners  sitting  opposite  seized 
his  hand  roughly  with  a  volley  of  hideous  Western  oaths,  and  exclaimed, 
in  a  tone  of  excitement,  "The  fellow's  cheating;  that's  whar  it  is. 
He's  a  regular  eighteen-carat  desperado,  I  tell  you.     He  can  see  every 

{)ip  on  all  the  cards  as  fast  as  he  deals  'em.     By  thunder,  boys,  you 
ook  how  he's  doing  you  1 " 

As  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  a  little  pool  of  spilt  lager  on  the  table 
below,  right  in  front  of  the  unhappy  Chinaman.  Every  eye  was 
directed  at  once  to  the  suspicious  spot,  as  the  friend  of  law  and  order, 
dealing  out  the  carda  from  below  one  by  one,  proceeded  to  show  how  Li 


IBB  DBTIL'I  DIB.  Ifi 

Bing  bad  managed  to  spy  out  every  single  pip  of  them.  Sure  enough, 
whether  Li  Sing  know  it  or  not,  the  surface  of  the  lager  made  a  tiny 
mirror,  in  whose  face  the  pips  were  distinctly  reflected  as  he  passed 
them  over  it.  The  Chinaman  received  the  news  of  his  exposure  with 
characteristic  calmness  of  external  demeanor.  He  still  continued  to 
smile  mechanically,  but  the  corners  of  his  mouth  now  twitched  and 
quivered  with  tremulous  anxiety.  Innocent  or  guilty  mattered  but 
little  : — with  those  lawless  men,  suspicion  and  condemation  were  one 
and  the  same  thing.  The  Chinaman  had  been  caught  red-handed  in  the 
very  act — caught  committing  the  highest  crime  and  misdemeanour  any- 
where known  to  gambling  humanity — cheating  at  poker.  For  such  an 
oflfence  there  is  but  one  punishment  in  the  miners'  code.  Li  Sing  kne^v 
it,  and  trembled  like  a  spaniel. 

In  a  moment  that  group  of  rough  and  angry  men  had  formed  them- 
selves  with  practised  ease  into  a  capital  tribunal.  Chaparral  Bill  took 
upon  himself  the  office  of  foreman.  *'Boys,"  he  said,  "the  prisoner 
before  you  is  accused  of  playing  oflf  the  square  at  poker.  According  to 
the  principle  of  this  community,  playing  off  the  square  is  punishable 
right  off  with  twenty  yards  of  stout  hemp  rope.  What  is  your  verdict 
on  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  ?    Do  you  find  him  guilty  or  not  guilty  ? " 

*'  Guilty  1 "  the  irregular  jury  of  miners  unanimously  responded. 

*'  Hand  us  out  a  rope,"  Chaparral  Bill  observed  laconically  to  the 
lounging  barman. 

The  barman  executed  the  order  as  promptly  as  if  he  had  merely  been 
asked  for  another  pint  of  lager. 

*'  Tie  his  arms,"  Chaparral  Bill  muttered  sternly. 

The  men  wound  the  rope  round  the  unresisting  Chinaman  till  his 
arms  were  pinioned  flat  to  his  sides,  and  the  legs  alone  were  left  free 
for  walking. 

Chaparral  Bill  spoke  again.  *'  Let  us  do  everything  decently  and  in 
order,"  he  said.  "  This  is  justice.  The  sentence  of  the  court  on  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  is  that  he  be  marched  out  of  the  city  to  the  nearest 
tree,  and  there  be  hanged  by  the  neck  till  dead,  by  the  hand  of  every 
adult  male  in  this  community.  Come  along,  boys  ;  there's  fun  ahead. 
We're  a-going  to  hang  him." 

Ivan  Royle  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  At  the  risk  of  his  life — 
for  he  knew  how  cheap  that  commodity  was  held  among  his  present 
neighbours — he  clapped  his  hand  firmly  upon  Chaparral  Bill's  shoulder, 
and  exclaimed  in  a  voice  full  of  horror  and  alarm,  "  You  don't  mean  to 
say  you're  really  going  to  hang  him  just  for  cheating  at  poker  1 " 

Chaparral  Bill  turned  around  fiercely,  and  his  fingers  toyed  in  an 
ominous  fashion  with  the  trigger  of  his  derringer.  "Tenderfoots  are 
advised  to  mind  their  own  business  in  this  here  community,"  he  said, 
with  an  angry  and  menacing  aspect.  *  *  I've  seen  a  tenderfoot  booked 
through  to  the  happy  land  afore  this  for  far  less  than  interfering  with 
the  righteous  execution  of  a  yellow-faced  Chinaman.  The  law  is 
supremo  in  Eagle  City.  The  Chinaman's  had  a  fair  trial  by  a  jury  of 
his  peers,  and  if  we  hang  him,  I  reckon,  stranger,  we  mean  to  hang 
him  all  square  and  above-board,  like  peaceable,  law-abiding  Amerioui 


1st  TBI  DITIL'B  DIB. 

citizens.     Tou  ain't  acouBtomed  to  justice  in  Europe.     Tenderfoots 
and  aliens  are  hereby  respectfully  warned  off  the  premises. " 

Ivan's  indignation  waxed  bright  and  earnest.  But  the  mure  he 
expostulated,  the  more  did  those  angry  men  turn  in  their  savage 
humour  against  him.  Their  blood  was  up  and  they  meant  business. 
"  See  here,  tenderfoot,"  Chaparral  Bill  exclaimed  at  last ;  "  this 
thing's  got  to  be  done,  one  way  or  the  other.  The  question  is,  Shall 
w;e  just  hang  the  Chinaman  alone,  or  shall  we  make  a  job  of  it,  and 
hang  the  pair  of  you  for  aiding  and  abetting  ?  The  law  don't  look  with 
no  favour  in  Eagle  City  on  parties  that  take  the  side  of  prisoners  con- 
victed of  trying  to  cheat  at  poker.  If  you  want  to  save  your  own  neck, 
you'd  bett3r  give  up  the  darned  Chinaman's." 

Ivan  saw  that  resistance  was  useless.  Horror-struck  and  silent,  he 
followed  the  crowd  as  they  marched  the  pinioned  Chinaman  between 
two  sturdy  miners  off  to  the  improvised  place  of  execution. 

Arrived  at  the  tree,  the  hasty  procession  called  a  halt,  and  Chaparral 
Bill  addressed  the  assembly,  which  by  this  time  comprised  almost  every 
man,  woman,  and  child  in  Eagle  City.  The  news  that  an  execution 
was  to  take  place  had  spread  like  wildfire  through  saloons  and  gambling 
hells,  and  the  entire  community  had  turned  out  in  a  body,  wild  with 
excitement,  to  "see  the  Chinaman  swung  f^ito  eternity." 

The  burlesque  of  justice  was  enacted  on  all  sides  with  singular  gravity 
and  pretended  order. 

"Boys,"  Chaparral  Bill  began,  quietly,  " we  don't  have  no  court, 
no  judge,  nor  no  United  States  marshal  neither,  here  fco  protect  us." 

"  Nor  don't  want 'em,"  a  hoarse  voice  interposed  in  a  stage  aside 
from  the  tumultuous  crowd.  The  rough  bystanders,  seized  with  the 
humour  of  it,  laughed  and  applauded  the  unknown  speaker. 

"  The  United  States  Guv'raent  don't  give  us  no  protection,"  Chap- 
arral Bill  continued,  without  deigning  to  heed  the  untimely  interrup- 
tion, "  and  we're  consequently  obliged  to  protect  ourselves  with  our 
own  hands  by  lynching  our  prisoners.  This  here  prisoner,  Li  Sing,  the 
laundryman,  has  cheated  at  poker,  let  alone  his  being  no  morn'n  a 
blamed  Chinaman  to  begin  with.  Some  of  the  boys  were  ag'in  law  and 
order,  and  wanted  to  have  us  run  him  out  and  let  'em  fire  a  shot  at  him 
l^r  the  sake  of  the  amusement.  But  the  peaceful  and  law-abiding 
citizens  of  this  community,  taking  the  matter  into  their  own  hands, 
have  given  the  Chinaman  a  fair  trial,  and  finding  him  a  cheating  gamb- 
ler, and  a  bad  crowd  generally,  have  deputed  me  to  act  as  sheriff  at  hia 
execution.     Boys,  put  a  noose  in  that  rope  there,  will  you  1 " 

The  noose  was  made  in  profound  silence. 

*'  Pass  it  over  the  branch." 

They  passed  it  over. 

The  men  had  rolled  out  two  empty  biscuit  barrels  from  the  Eagle 
City  grocery  store.  On  top  of  the  two  they  placed  a  plank  of  deal. 
Chaparral  Bill  assisted  the  Chinaman  to  mount  the  plank.  Till  that 
moment,  Li  Sing  had  not  opened  his  mouth.  But  as  he  stood  there 
facing  his  murderert^  with  his  hands  tied  and  the  fatal  noose  placed 
rpund  his  neok,  with  the  strange  stolidity  of  the  Mongolian  race,  hf 


THE  DETIL's  DIB.  157 

called  out  in  an  almost  unmoved  tone,  **  Good-bye,  Melican  ;  good-bye, 
tenderfoot.     Tank  you  for  try  to  save  poor  Chinaman." 

A  long  rope  was  tied  to  the  plank  between  the  barrels  on  which  the 
Chinaman  stood.  Chaparral  Bill,  in  a  tone  of  command,  gave  the  word 
of  order,  "Every  miner  in  this  camp,  and  every  citizen  in  Eagle  City, 
bear  a  hand  to  the  rope  and  take  his  share  in  the  responsibility  of 
checking  the  Chinaman  through  to  his  destination." 

Every  man  laid  his  hand  to  the  rope  except  Ivan.  Chaparral  Bill 
turned  upon  him  angrily.  "  You  want  two  executions,  tenderfoot,  do 
you?"  he  said,  with  intense  contempt  in  his  tone.  "Boys,  we  ain't 
in  the  humour  of  argument.  To  prevent  further  trouble,  which  might 
lead  to  unpleasantness,  jest  lay  hold  of  his  hands,  will  you,  and  make 
him  pull  with  you,  whether  he  likes  it  or  don't  like  it.  And  as  he 
spoke  he  covered  Ivan  with  the  muzzle  of  his  six-shooter. 

The  two  nearest  miners  seized  on  the  Englishman  in  spite  of  his 
struggles,  and  by  sheer  force  made  him  lay  his  hands  with  theirs  on  the 
rope. 

Chaparral  Bill,  in  a  loud  voice,  gave  the  word,  "  Pull  1 " 

*'  Every  hand  obeyed  tiie  ©rder.  A  jerk  of  the  rope — the  plank  fell, 
and  the  Chinaman's  neck  was  instantly  broken. 

In  twenty  minutes  all  Eagle  City  was  back  once  more  at  its  cus- 
tomary avocations,  swearing  and  drinking  and  gambling  and  smoking 
as  if  nothing  at  all  out  of  the  common  had  happened.  Only,  now  and 
again,  in  an  interval  between  the  deals,  one  reflective  spirit  would 
remark  to  another,  with  a  pensive  sigh,  that,  after  all,  it  was  confounded 
rough  they  should  have  been  obliged  to  string  up  their  only  laundry- 
man.  No  other  notice  was  taken  of  the  affair.  It  was  an  ordinary 
incident  at  Eagle  Oity. 


CHAPTER  XXrX. 

It  was  an  awful  night  of  suspense  and  misery  to  Harry  Chichele. 
His  sin  was  indeed  beginning  to  find  him  out.  All  night  long,  through 
the  blackness  and  silence,  he  lay  and  tossed  on  his  feverish  couch, 
between  hope  and  fear,  unable  to  whisper  a  word  of  his  dread  to  Olwen, 
unable  to  hint  or  suggest  his  devouring  terrors,  afraid  even  to  move  lest 
he  should  betray  his  wakefulness,  yet  incapable  of  dozing  for  a  single 
second,  with  that  awful  weight  of  guilt  and  uncertainty  pressing  every 
instant  upon  his  agonized  conscience.  Hour  after  hour  the  big  clock 
on  the  stairs  tolled  out  the  passing  of  the  slow,  slow  ages — for  they 
seemed  like  ages,  immeasurable  ages,  to  his  burdened  soul.  As  each 
passed  by  he  could  not  believe  the  evidence  of  his  senses,  that  it  was 
all  one  single  night.  No  year  in  his  life  had  ever  seemed  to  spread 
over  such  endless  time.  He  had  crammed  an  infinity  of  conflicting 
emotions  into  each  second  of  that  short  space,  and  each  second  expanded 
accordingly  for  him  to  a  whole  eternity. 


16S  ^  TBI  dhtil'i  turn. 

Would  the  germs  take  ?  That  was  the  question.  He  feared  they 
would.  If  so— he  dared  not  face  it  1  Now  that  he  stood  confronting 
that  hideous  scheme  as  an  irrevocable  reality,  it  appalled  and  hor- 
rified him  by  its  baseness  and  cruelty  :  how  could  he  ever  have  dreamt 
of  such  a  vile  crime  against  his  own  dear  little  innocent  01  wen? 
Would  the  germs  take  ?  He  feared  they  wouldn't.  And  then  he 
would  have  seared  his  troubled  conscience  with  that  ghastly  attempt, 
all  for  nothing;  and  he  and  Seeta  would  never,  never  be  happy 
together.  It  was  an  awful  alternative.  He  never  knew  which  way  to 
accept  it. 

Would  the  germs  take  1  He  hoped  they  would.  He  lay  there,  watch- 
ing and  waiting  and  expecting,  looking  forward  for  the  first  symptoms 
of  that  horrible  disease,  silently  observing  with  his  cool,  keen,  medical 
sense  every  momentary  change  in  Olwen's  breathing,  every  pulse  and 
flutter  of  her  palpitating  heart,  every  conceivable  sign  of  the  coming 
fever.  They  must  take  ;  he  felt  sure  they  must.  The  poison  was  so 
fresh,  BO  strong,  so  virulent.  For  Seeta's  sake,  he  longed  for  the 
morning.  He  longed  to  know  that  that  awful  consummation  was  really 
coming. 

Would  the  germs  take?  He  hoped  and  fervently  prayed  they  mightn't. 
Murder  1  murder  1  his  own  wife's  murderer  1  Oh,  God  1  oh,  God  I 
What  an  awful  record  !  Dear  little  Olwen  1  Gentle  little  Olwen  !  A 
good  wife  and  true  to  him,  as  ever  lived.  But  circumstances,  circum- 
stances, irrepressible  circumstances.  He  couldn't  help  it.  Fate  had 
compelled  him.  One  first  false  step  entails  so  many  others.  An  error 
from  the  beginning,  a  fatal  error.  Fatal,  indeed,  in  this  its  final  out- 
come. How  horrible  to  live  in  this  fearful  suspense  1  If  only,  now, 
he  dared  take  her  wrist  and  feel  her  pulse.  These  Oriental  epedemics 
mature  rapidly.  Oh,  God  !  her  forehead  was  growing  hot  and  dry. 
Pray  heaven  it  wasn't  so  1  But  she  laid  her  arms  now  outside  the 
counterpane.  What  an  awful  vigil ;  What  a  night  of  agony  !  Two 
o'clock  1  Two  o'clock  only  1  One — two— why  no  more  ?  Surely, 
surely,  it  was  hours  and  hours  since  it  last  struck.  Three  more  eterni- 
ties, long,  long  eternities,  before  the  day  could  break  I  Even  daylight 
would  be  a  little  relief  !  to  see  how  she  looked  ;  to  hear  what  she  said  I 
Strange  that  till  to-night  she  had  always  been  so  sleepless.  And 
to-night,  without  morphia,  without  drugs  of  any  sort,  she  slept  so 
soundly,  so  sweetly,  so  placidly.  But  cases  will  take  these  strange 
twists  and  turns.  Gould  it  be  the  very  strength  of  the  disease  itself 
that  was  making  her  sleep  so  deeply  in  spite  of  everything  ? 

Lying  there  so  motionless  and  unconscious  still  1  He  wouldn't  disturb 
her  or  rouse  her  from  her  sleep  for  millions.  He  lay  like  a  mouse, 
himself,  the  whole  night  through,  though  his  soul  was  thus  torturing 
him,  tossing  and  turning.  He  would  have  given  worlds  if  only  he  could 
have  groaned  or  moaned.  A  little  outlet  for  his  pent-up  feelings  would 
be  such  a  relief.  But  he  must  be  quite  motionless  in  spite  of  it  all, 
and  pretend  to  be  sleeping.  Truly,  the  way  of  transgressors  is  hard  1 
Such  agony  he  had  never  before  conceived  as  possible.  "  Oh  Seeta? 
Seeta  1 "  be  murmurvd  to  himself,  *'I  have  suUered  much  for  you.' 


Tfll  DKTIL'8  DIl.  150 

As  he  spoke,  Olwen  stirred  and  changed  in  her  sleep  the  position  of 
her  arms.  Her  forehead,  he  could  somehow  feel  without  touching  it, 
waa  dry  and  hot.  He  held  his  hand  cautiousiy  half  an  inch  off.  Her 
skin  was  often  dry  and  hot  on  these  latter  nights.  There  might  be  no 
particular  harm  in  that.  Oh  heavens  1  had  Ali  changed  the  infupions  ? 
He  prayed  in  his  soul  with  fervent  wrestling  that  Ali  might  have 
changed  those  deadly  infusions. 

Harry  Chichele  was  a  very  stout  sinner ;  but  he  had  miscalculated 
somewhat  his  own  criminal  proficiency.  He  thought  himself  quite 
superior  to  remorse.  When  he  came  to  try,  he  found  himself  nob 
entirely  beneath  it.  Bad  as  he  was,  he  was  better  than  he  imagined  ; 
he  could  still  suffer  agonies  for  the  horrid  crime  he  had  tried  to  commit 
so  cruelly  and  basely. 

At  five  o'clock,  Olwen  awoke  with  a  start.  She  pub  a  hand  to  her 
forehead  with  a  cry  of  pain.  '*  Harry,"  she  cried.  **0h,  Harry, 
Harry  1  My  head's  aching !  Aching  terribly  1  I  never  felt  such  a 
headache  before  :  and  pain  here — oh,  so  very,  very  very  sudden  ! " 

Harry  knew  it  in  a  moment.  They  were  the  exact  symptomB  of  the 
Levantine  sailor  I 

Oh,  God  I  oh  God  1    It  was  too,  too  terrible  I  , 

That  case  proved  fatal  in  twenty-six  hours. 

A  sudden  thrill  run  through  his  bones.  A  thrill  bo  complex,  bo 
awful,  so  horrible,  that  he  couldn't  himself  have  said  what  it  was. 
Relief,  at  the  termination  of  that  long  suspense.  Joy,  Ut  the  arrival  of 
an  expected  result.  Horror,  at  the  confirmation  of  his  deadliest  fears. 
Agony,  at  the  sight  of  so  much  innocent  suffering.  Remorse,  at  the 
conBciousness  of  his  own  unspeakable  guilt.  Triumph,  at  the  sense 
of  having  after  all,  outwitted  Ali.  Shame  and  fear  and  pity  and  despair, 
at  the  knowledge  of  the  heinousness  of  his  attempted  crime.  And 
through  it  all,  one  fiercely  overpowering  and  masterful  thought — to 
save  that  beautiful  menaced  life  at  all  hazards. 

He  sprang  from  the  bed  in  a  second  like  one  possessed.  He  must 
cure  her  I  He  must  cure  her  1  Oh  heavens  I  he  must  cure  her  1  In 
its  first  stages  the  disease  is  curable.  Olwen  had  told  him  of  her  deadly 
symptoms  at  the  very  earliest  possible  moment.  He  had  no  diagnosis 
to  make,  no  traces  to  observe  ;  he  knew  at  once  the  full  extent  and 
nature  of  the  mischief,  and  no  living  man  in  all  England  was  better 
fitted  than  he  to  wrestle  and  cope  with  it.  She  should  not  die  1  She 
should  not  die  1  He  should  save  her  1  He  would  save  her  1  He  must 
save  her  1    His  own  beloved  precious  little  Olwen  1 

He  loved  her  still — oh  God  \  how  he  loved  her.  If  she  died  now,  he 
would  long  for  a  hell  in  which  to  hide  himself. 

In  ten  minutes  the  whole  household  was  alive  with  the  alarming 
news  that  Mrs.  Chichele  had  been  taken  seriously  ill  and  that  the  pro- 
fessor had  sent  for  another  doctor  to  help  him  treat  her.  To  his 
brother-practitioner,  Harry's  account  of  the  matter  was  transparent  truth 
and  simplicity  itself.     He  had  been  down  in  the  east-end  a  couple  of 


too  ttn  DEtiL's  m% 

A&yn  before,  he  said,  investigating  some  suspected  cases  of  choleraic 
symptoms  among  Levantine  sailors,  Lascars,  and  so  forth ;  and  he 
must  have  brought  home  the  infection  in  his  clothes,  for  Mrs.  Ohichele 
now  exhibited  precisely  the  same  distressing  symptoms  as  his  east-end 
subjects.  He  was  agitated,  of  course,  but  not  to  the  outer  eye  more 
painfully  agitated  than  any  man  would  naturally  be  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances. His  wife  was  seriously  ill  with  a  terrible  complaint,  and 
he  himself,  it  might  be  fairly  presumed,  had  unintentionally  conveyed 
the  contagion  to  her.  That  alone  might  make  any  man  alarmed  and 
horrified  :  and  nobody  was  at  all  likely  to  suspect  Harry  Chichele  of 
any  deliberate  or  conscious  design  against  hia  own  wife's  life  and  happi- 
ness. 

But  within,  his  soul  was  like  a  seething  volcano.  Horror  and  remorse 
had  now  taken  hold  of  him  bodily.  The  hell  he  prayed  for  was  burning 
within  him.  The  devil's  die  had  been  cast  to  no  purpose  ;  he  longed 
*t  present  with  unspeakable  and  hopeless  longing  to  take  that  inevit- 
able throw  back  again.  All  his  skill  and  care  he  lavished  tenderly 
upon  that  poor  helpless  feverish  patient,  whom  his  own  act  had  delib- 
erately brought  into  such  deadly  and  awful  and  undeserved  peril.  The 
sight  of  her  suffering  drove  him  mad  with  pi^.  To  watch  her  there  in 
throes  for  her  life,  and  to  know  that  he  himself  had  with  his  own  hands, 
of  malice  prepense,  caused  all  that  agony  !  Oh  it  was  horrible  1  hor- 
rible !  horrible  1  He  could  hardly  nerve  himself  to  wait  upon  her  and 
tend  her.  Yet  for  his  own  punishment,  and  for  Olwen's  sake,  he  would 
go  through  with  it  now.  He  deservei  it  all,  and  ten  thousand  times 
more.  He  would  not  spare  himself  one  pang  of  it  all.  No  hand  but 
his  should  nurse  her  through  the  crisis.  He  would  brazen  it  out :  hn 
would  watch  it  all  through  :  for  mercy's  sake,  he  would  steel  himself  to 
endure  it. 

Ten  thousand  times  more  than  he  had  longed  to  rid  himself  of  tha^ 
sweet  presence  he  longed  now,  with  in  infinite  yearning,  to  save  Olwen's 
life  and  make  her  happy. 

Olwen  !  Olwen  I  Olwen  1  Olwen  1  That  older  chorus  had  one* 
more  reasserted  itself.  Seeta  was  forgotten  and  utterly  banished  from 
his  mind.  It  was  all  Olwen,  Olwen  now.  For  mercy's  sake,  let  him 
save  Olwen ! 

Let  him  save  Olwen,  and  then  kill  himself  by  her  side  for  very 
shame  I  He  wasn't  fit  to  live  with  such  an  angel  as  Olwen.  He  could 
easily  kill  himself — it  was  his  one  chance  of  grace.  He  knew  so  many 
ways  of  doing  it  unobtrusively,  to  that  Olwen  herself  would  never  sus- 
pect it.     And  Olwen  then  might  at  last  be  happy. 

He  owed  it — he  owed  it  as  reparation  to  Olwen. 

All  that  (lay  he  sat  and  watched  by  Olwen's  bed.  He  never  stirred 
or  moved  an  inch.  He  was  swallowed  up  now  in  one  burning  desire — 
to  undo  the  past  by  saving  Olwen. 

To  undo  the  past !  To  undo  the  past !  The  past  can  never,  never 
be  undone.     And  the  future  stretched  black  as  hell  before  him. 

To  Lizboth,  below  in  the  laboratory  by  herself,  the  news  came  not 
wheUjr  unexpected,  and  yet  as  a  strange  and  sudden  revelation.     ^Slt« 


tBM  devil's  DIfi.  161 

understood  at  last  what  it  all  meant.  The  doctor  had  wanted  to  give 
Her  the  cholera  1  She  understood  it  clearly  and  definitely  now  in  her 
own  small  head  ;  yet,  with  her  dog-like  fidelity  and  tenacity  of  afiec- 
tion,  she  was  not  in  the  least  distressed  or  shocked  at  it.  She  accepted 
it  as  a  dog  accepts  his  master's  doings  against  friend  or  enemy.  Ho 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  her,  did  he,  really?  And  the  Blackamoor,  he 
tried  to  go  and  stop  him  !  But  she'd  outwitted  the  Blackamoor,  and 
set  it  all  right !  She'd  helped  the  doctor  to  do  as  he  wished.  She'd 
deserved  well  of  Harry  Chichele. 

For  as  soon  as  Mohammad  Ali's  back  was  turned,  Lizbeth  had  made 
it  her  first  business  to  ungum  the  labels  on  the  suspicious  watch-glasses, 
to  replace  them  all  on  their  proper  infusions,  and  to  put  back  the  germs 
where  Harry  had  left  them.  In  a  moment,  now  that  it  all  came  out, 
she  understood  that  she  had  made  herself  an  unwitting  accessory  to  an 
attempted  murder.  Ali  had  suspected  it  and  tried  to  prevent  its  occur- 
renee,  but  she  herself,  with  childish  low  London  back-slum  cunning, 
had  baffled  and  outwitted  the  hateful  Blackamoor.  She  was  glad  of  it 
now.     She'd  helped  the  doctor. 

More  than  that  the  girl  saw  clearly  now.  She  knew  that  All  had 
detected  Harry,  and  had  tried  to  change  the  infusions  in  the  watch- 
glasses.  But  she  had  seen  Ali,  and  Ali  had  never  seen  her  in  turn. 
She  understood  instinctively  that  this  special  knowledge  gave  her  a 
powerful  handle  to  use  against  the  Blackamoor.  If  ever  he  dared  to 
accuse  the  doctor  of  having  attempted  to  poison  his  wife,  she,  Lizbeth, 
could  come  forward  in  opposition  and  give  evidence  against  him,  crush- 
ing evidence,  that  she  had  watched  him  meddling  and  muddling  that 
afternoon  with  tho  infusions  in  the  laboratory.  And  nobody  could 
give  similar  evidence  against  herself.  If  ever  it  came  to  a  question  of 
swearing,  it  was  Ali  who  would  be  hanged,  and  not  Harry  Chichele. 

Mohammad  Ali,  at  his  own  rooms,  sat  at  breakfast  moodily  by  him- 
self, waiting  and  wondering  as  to  Olwen's  safety.  The  postman's  knock 
resounded  at  the  door.  He  never  heeded  it.  The  servant  brought  in 
a  neat  little  note  for  him,  in  a  small  and  dainty  square  envelope.  On 
the  flap,  in  delicate  dark-brown  letters,  he  noticed  c;^  sually  a  stamped 
monogram,  "  S.M."  or  "  M.S.,"  he  knew  not  which,  nor  did  he  care 
greatly.  He  tore  it  open,  and  on  the  pretty  correspondence  card  within 
he  read  in  a  bold  and  well-formed  feminine  hand  these  surprising 
words : — 

**  Langham  Hotel,  Thursday. 
"Dear  Dr.  Ali, 

*'  I  have  come  to  London,  direct  from  Florence,  at  a  moment's 
notice.  I  have  come  to  throw  myself  upon  your  kind  indulgence.  I 
have  come  to  crave  your  aid  and  assistance.  I  don't  want  to  see  Harry 
or  Olwon.  1  have  kept  my  compact,  as  you  well  know,  though  it  has 
cost  me  hard  ;  and  I'm  not  going  to  break  it.  Urgent  and  serious 
private  business  has  brought  mo  to  London.  But  I  desire  most  earn- 
estly that  the  dear  Chichelca  should  not  hoar  of  my  visit ;  and  I'm 
afraid  to  call  upon  you  at  your  own  rooms,  lest  1  should  chance  to 

(11) 


162  THE   DEVIiL^S  DII. 

knock  up  against  either  one  of  them.  Can  you  come  and  see  me  here 
privately  at  the  Langhara  ?  I  know  you  will — any  time  you  choose 
to-morrow  morning.     1  rely  upon  friendship, — In  greatest  haste, 

'*  Ever  yours  most  sincerely, 

"  Seeta  Mayne." 

All  flung  down  the  letter  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  Could  Seeta 
possibly  have  chosen  a  worse  time  than  this  for  coming  to  London  ? 

If  Harry  saw  her,  all  would  be  up.  In  his  present  mood,  with  snch 
strong  temptation  visibly  before  his  eyes,  the  pains  of  death  itself  would 
never  restrain  him.  Seeta  would  reassert  all  her  old  power,  and  it 
would  mean  death  for  poor  little  01  wen. 

He  must  rush  down  to  the  Langham  and  see  her  at  once.  But  on 
the  way  he  must  call  at  the  Chichelea'  and  inquire  for  Olwen. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

CoLONBL  Mayne's  year  of  leave  had  well-nigh  expired,  and  he  had 
loitered  almost  to  the  last  at  Florence,  where  he  had  been  spending  thi' 
time  with  his  distinguished  sister  in  the  congenial  occupation  of  doing 
nothing.  Colonel  Mayne's  feelings  with  regard  to  Seeta  were  singularly 
mixed  and  complex  in  character — he  was  half  proud  of  her,  half  afraid 
of  her  ;  laughing  now  at  her  feminine  vehemence,  angry  again  at  her 
unconventional  freedom,  cordially  disliking  all  her  views  and  opinions, 
but  fully  alive  to  the  reflected  glory  which  her  fame  and  repute  as  a 
popular  novelist  cast  by  impUcation  upon  his  own  person. 

At  Florence,  however,  since  there  were  no  foxes  to  hunt,  no  tigers 
to  shoot,  no  pheasants  to  massacre,  and  no  Nautch  girls  to  encourage, 
Arthur  Mayne  passed  the  time  somehow  by  playing  deep  and  playing 
constantly.  A  man,  after  all,  must  do  something.  The  Tyrant  time 
must  be  killed  somehow.  Arthur  Mayne  killed  him  at  Florence  in  his 
favourite  fashion  by  losing  Seeta's  spare  cash  at  the  club  with  magnifi- 
cent freedom  and  gentlemanly  indiiference.  There  was  plenty  more 
where  that  came  from,  Arthur  had  speculated  a  little  in  mtnes  him- 
self, and  burnt  his  lingers  into  the  bargain,  of  course  —burning  his 
fingers  was  a  pet  amusement,  indeed,  of  Arthur's  ;  like  the  singed 
moth,  he  could  never  long  keep  away  from  the  candle.  But  Seeta  had 
an  inexhaustible  mine  of  her  own  in  her  own  head— a  mine  that  could 
Ise  worked  all  the  year  round  without  intermission,  yielding  sixty  ounces 
to  the  ton,  pure  gold,  all  ready  crushed,  and  washed,  and  minted.  On 
that  mine,  Arthur  drew  freely  ;  and  Seeta,  petulant  and  angry  often, 
yet  worked  the  mine  for  his  benefit  at  higher  pressure  than  ever  before, 

ekrtly  to  meet  Arthur's  constant  necessities,  and  partly  to  forget  about 
arry  Cliichele. 
Now,  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  spendthrift  disposition  that  the  more 


THB  devil's   D^2.  163 

you  give  it  the  poorer  it  gets.  Arthur  Mayne  went  on  apending,  went 
on  gambling,  went  on  losing  Seeta's  money,  and  wanted  more  to  spend 
daily.  Besides  paying  away  all  he  could  scrape,  he  paid  away  a  great 
deal  more  on  note  of  hand  in  perspective,  *'  Mayne's  paper,"  as  every- 
body called  it,  grew  a  form  of  currency  alarmingly  frequent  among  all 
the  English-speaking  colony  at  Florence,  Worse  still,  Mayne's  paper 
was  at  a  discount,  too  ;  nobody  at  last  cared  to  receive  it  as  payment 
in  full  at  any  card-table.  This  was  annoying  ;  this  was  disagreeable  ; 
this  was  even  ignominious  ;  for  no  gentleman  likes  to  find  his  promise 
to  pay  regarded  as  less  than  the  exact  equivalent  of  hard  money  by  hii 
equals  anywhere.  Colonel  Mayne  in  his  despair  applied  once  more  to 
his  agents  in  London.  His  agents  in  London  wrote  back  politely  by 
tiie  next  post  informing  him  that  they  could  make  no  further  advances 
to  his  credit  on  any  terms  ;  and  at  the  same  time  they  casually 
mentioned  that  unless  Colonel  Mayne  could  meet  in  full  certain  accep- 
tances now  due  to  a  certain  respectable  native  capitalist  at  Saharanpur, 
in  the  North  West  Provinces,  the  native  capitalist's  London  solicitor 
had  assured  them  of  his  intention  to  take  immediate  proceedings  against 
the  colonel  on  his  return  to  town  to  report  himself  at  the  War  Office. 
Return  he  must,  for  his  regiment  was  now  back  in  Europe,  and  within 
a  few  weeks  he  must  resume  command  of  it  at  Londonderry,  where  it 
was  about  to  be  stationed  next  in  due  rotation.  This  was  bad  news, 
indeed.  Seeta's  patience  was  well  nigh  exhausted  ;  Seeta's  purse  and 
credit  were  very  probably  exhausted  also.  He  would  have  to  return 
to  London  almost  immediately.  An  action  just  then  would  mean  down- 
right bankruptcy  ;  bankruptcy  would  mean  disgrace  and  professional 
ruin.  Arthur  Mayne  stood  fairly  aghast.  He  found  himself  at  last 
face  to  face  with  realities.    Something  must  be  arranged  at  all  hazards. 

Under  these  painful  circumstances  the  gallant  officer  determined  to 
do  the  thing  he  hated  most,  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  all  to  Seeta. 
He  would  rather  have  f^one  into  action  unarmed  than  face  the  w^cuth  of 
that  righteously  indignant  woman.  But  Seeta  received  the  news  of  the 
crash  with  that  calm  resignation  with  which  women  often  accept  finan- 
cial ruin.  "  I've  done  all  I  can,  for  you,  Arthur,"  she  said  quietly  1 
'*  I  can  do  no  more.  You'll  have  to  go  through  the  court  now.  We 
must  return  to  London  and  face  it  together." 

"  Couldn't  you  do  something,"  Colonel  Mayne  suggested,  with  a  ten- 
tative shamefaced  sidelong  look  at  his  sister,  *'  with  that — er — that 
native  friend  of  yours,  Dr.  Mohammad  Ali  1 " 

"  My  confounded  Baboo  fellow,"  Seeta  repeated  calmly.  **  He's  the 
•on  of  yowr  confounded  banker  fellow  at  Saharanpur,  I  remember  you 
told  me.  You  want  me  to  use  my  influence  with  the  Baboo  to  get  nim 
to  use  his  influence  with  his  father  to  put  ofi'a  little  longer  this  inevi- 
table final  smash  and  crasli  of  yours  !  Thai's  what  you  moan,  in  plain 
English  1  Arthur  Mayne,  I'm  positively  ashamed  of  you.  How  you 
oan  ask  me  to  do  such  a  thing  as  that  after  the  way  you've  spoken  to 
me  of  poor  Mohammad  Ali,  who's  worth  a  hundred  and  twenty  thou- 
■and  such  fellows  as  you  are,  I'm  only  a  woman,  but  I  can't  imagine." 

**  His  valuation's  gone  up,"  the  colonel  responded,  with  quiet  aar^ 


164  THB  DSYIL'S  DIB. 

oasm,  trying  to  look  as  unconcerned  as  possible,  and  failing  egregiously. 
"  And  I  think  you  might  say  a  word  for  me,  and  these  niggers  '11  do  any- 
thing on  earth,  you  know,  for  a  white  woman." 

Seeta's  eyes  flashed  unwonted  fire  as  she  answered  proudly,  **  I 
wouldn't  ask  him  a  favour  for  myself,  no,  not  if  I  died  for  it ;  and  I 
won't  ask  him  one  even  for  you,  I  swear  to  you,  Arthur.  But  if  it's  to 
save  you  from  disgracing  the  family  by  going  into  the  Bankruptcy 
Oourt,  and  exposing  all  your  shabby  underhanded  dealings  with  ijro- 
fessional  gamblers  and  Indian  money-lenders,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do 
for  you.  I'll  go  to  London  with  you — though  I  hoped  never  to  go  again 
while  I  lived  to  that  hateful  hole — and  I'll  call  on  Mohammad  Ali,  and 
I'll  promise  hira  faithfully — I  keep  my  promises — that  if  he'll  induce 
his  father  to  grant  a  delay,  I'll  undertake  personally  to  see  him  paid 
every  penny  in  full — which  is  better  security  than  ever  you  could  give 
to  anybody.  I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  to  settle  his  account ; 
I'll  mortgage  all  my  future  writings  and  success  for  you.  And  then  I 
know  what  you'll  do  for  me  after  all — go  away,  and  begin  from  the 
beginning  over  again  as  badly  as  ever.  Pah  1  if  I  hadn't  loved  you 
dearly  from  a  child,  I'd  hate  you,  Arthur — I'd  hate  you  ! — I'd  hate 
you  1 " 

Colonel  Mayne  had  someting  of  the  Mayne  pride  left  in  him  after 
all,  and,  if  he  dared,  he  would  have  resented  this  characteristic  out- 
burst of  Seeta's.  But  he  couldn't  resent  it  now  without  losing  her  help, 
and  her  help  was  just  then  absolutely  indespensable  to  him  ;  so  he  put 
his  prido  in  his  pocket  for  the  moment,  and  accepted  with  fervour  the 
terms  that  Seeta  offered  to  him. 

As  soon  as  Mohammad  Ali  had  read  the  letter  which  Seeta  sent  him 
on  her  arrival  in  London  he  took  up  his  hat  and  proceeded  to  action. 
He  had  flung  Seeta's  note  on  the  floor  in  his  first  despair.  He  picked 
it  up  now  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  He  then  hurried  around  to  Harry 
Chichele's  to  find  out  whether  by  some  strange  turn  of  fate  anything 
untoward  had  happened  to  Olwen.  He  couldn't  resist  his  vague  instinct 
which  told  him  that  something  terrible  had  occurred.  Instead  of  the 
housemaid,  Lizbeth  herself  opened  the  door  for  him.  She  had  been 
lurking  in  waiting  for  the  Blackamoor's  approach  for  hours  before,  that 
ahe  might  herself  see  and  gloat  over  his  discomfiture.  Not  that  Lizbeth 
was  cruel  or  unfeeling,  far  from  it ;  she  was  one  of  those  peculiar  and 
restricted  natures  which  can  only  fix  themselves  upon  one  end  at  a  time, 
and  can  lee  nothing  in  any  light  save  the  light  of  their  own  narrow  and 
specialized  sympatihies.  Lizbeth  could  have  fawned  upon  Harry  Ghi- 
chele  even  though  he  kicked  her,  but  she  could  only  regard  Mohammad 
Ali  as  Harry  s  baffled  and  defeated  enemy,  whom  she  herself  had  suc- 
ceeded in  baffling  and  defeating. 

She  didn't  wait  to  let  him  enter  ;  that  might  have  done  her  out  of 
her  expected  triumph.  She  took  him  into  the  little  study  down  stairs, 
»nd  kept  him  waiting  there  for  twenty  minutes.  He  didn't  know  till 
afterwards  how  fatal  those  twenty  minutes  were.  He  asked  for  Olwen. 
**  She's  all  right,"  the  girl  answered  quickly,  and  then  went  away. 


THB  devil's  dii.  165 

Relieved  at  the  answer,  Mohammad  AH  waited  patiently  ;  no  doubt 
Harry  would  soon  come  down  to  him.  At  last  the  door  opened  once 
more,  and  Lizbeth  reappeared.  She  wagged  her  head  at  him  with 
malicious  delight,  and  whispered  mysteriously  in  a  solemn  undertone, 
"  I  said  she  was  all  right ;  that  ain't  true.  She's  ill  ;  awful  ill.  She's 
took  with  the  cholera.  The  doctor's  up  there  attending  on  her  now, 
and  he's  sent  for  another  doctor  to  'elp  him." 

Mohammad  Ali  shrank  back  aghast.  '*  111  1 "  he  cried,  in  an  agonized 
voice.  "  Mrs.  Chichele  ill  1  Taken  with  the  cholera  1  It  isn't  true  ! 
It  can't  be  true  I  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  of  this  at  once  1  Somebody 
— somebody  must  have  been  meddling  with  the  infusions." 

'*  Somebody  was  a-meddlin',"  Lizbeth  repeated  stoutly,  looking  up 
in  hia  face  with  a  triumphant  smile.  '*  And  I'll  tell  you  who.  You 
was  the  somebody.  I  was  watching  behind  and  found  you  out.  I  seen 
you  do  it.  That  was  why  I  didn't  tell  you.  You  want  the  p'lice  to 
you,  that's  what  you  want.     You've  been  a-tryin'  to  murder  'er." 

Without  stopping  to  think  of  the  strange  peril  that  thus  unexpectedly 
confronted  him,  Mohammad  Ali,  stunned  by  the  sudden  news,  rushed 
up  the  stairs  and  into  the  open  drawing-room.  Harry  stood  there  in 
momentary  consultation  with  hia  brother-doctor.  A»»Mohammad  Ali 
entered  the  room,  Harry's  face  grew  deadlier  pale  than  ever.  It  was  ter- 
rible thus  to  be  confronted  with  the  man  who  knew  all,  who  had  guessed 
all,  who  had  read  everything  in  his  features  beforehand.  Terrible  at 
any  time,  but  more  painfully  terrible  than  ever  at  this  awful  hour  of 
suspense  and  remorse  and  fruitless  repentance.  He  did  not  dare  even 
to  look  at  Ali.  He  stood  and  trembled  through  every  limb  as  Ali  fixed 
his  stern  eye  upon  his  downcast  face.  The  Indian  motioned  the  strange 
practitioner  silently  from  the  room.  The  stranger  went  out,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him.  '*  What  does  this  mean,  Chichele  ?"  Ali  asked 
in  a  terrible  voice.  "What  devilry  have  we  here?  What  have  you 
done  ?    What  other  murder  have  you  been  planning  now  ? " 

Harry  raised  his  eyes  full  in  front  aiid  met  his  accuser's  without 
flinching.  There  was  in  them  no  hate,  no  anger,  no  terror  even — 
nothing  but  unspeakable  horror  and  agony.  "  We  must  save  her, 
Ali  1"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  wild  with  anguish.  "At  all  hazards,  we 
must  save  her,  we  must  save  her  1  Hang  me  for  it  afterwards — hang 
me  for  it  if  you  like — but  first  let  us  save  her  I  For  God's  sake,  help 
me,  help  me  to  save  her  1 " 

Mohammad  Ali  eyed  him  again.  He  knew  his  man  by  heart  now, 
down  to  the  very  core  and  root  of  him.  He  saw  that  Harry  was  speak- 
ing the  truth.  "  Save  her  1  "  he  echoed.  "  I  will  let  you  save  her.  If 
you  save  her  life,  you  shall  go  unhung.  Take  that  for  pardon.  I  will 
give  you  one  more  chance  to  save  her  ' 

Harry  looked  at  him  once  more  with  a  igonized  look,  full  of  genuine 
heartfelt  horror  and  remorse.  "  Ah,"  ho  cried,  clasping  his  pale  hands 
hard  together,  "  I  won't  pretend  to  mistjike  your  suspicions.  I  know 
what  you  think,  and  I  know  what  you  accuse  mo  of.  Never  mind  that. 
Hereafter,  perhaps,  we  may  settle  that  question.  But  for  the  present 
ftt  lei^t,  ozitil  I  have  saved  her  life,  say  not  a  word  nhtMk  it  to  any  ont 


166  THi  deyil'i  dii. 

for  ler  saka,  1  implore  you.     Hang  me,  if  you  like  ;  but  keep  it  from 
her.     If  Olwen  knew,  it  would  kill  her — it  would  kill  her  1 " 

"  If  Olwen  knew,"  Mohammad  Ali  echoed,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  allowing  her  Christian  name  alone  to  pass  his  lips,  '*it  would  cer- 
tainly kill  her.  For  her  sake,  at  present  at  least,  I  promise  to  keep 
my  own  counsel." 

"  Thank  you,"  Harry  cried,  in  a  fervour  of  gratitude.  '*  And  when 
we  have  saved  her,  I  shall  take  my  own  way,  if  need  be,  of  ridding  her 
of  me.     I  can  easily  do  it." 

Mohammad  Ali  nodded.  It  was  a  strange  compact,  but  to  his  ori- 
ental notions  not  an  unholy  one.  "  That  is  all  you  can  do  now,"  he 
answered  coldly.  Kismet :  it  was  fated.  "  Harry  Chichele,  you  are 
the  devil's  son,  and  you  have  acted  on  his  throw  as  your  father  bid  you. 
I  would  never  poison  that  pure  and  beautiful  woman's  life  by  unmask- 
ing before  her  all  the  unspeakable  and  unthinkable  villainy  of  the  man 
whom  she  took  for  her  wedded  husband.  Let  her  still  believe  you 
good  and  true  to  her.  Go  back  to  her  now.  Go  back  and  save  her. 
Do  your  best  to  undo  the  evil  you  have  done.  Nurse  her,  tend  her, 
watch  over  her  carefully.  I  see  even  your  hard  conscience  is  touched 
|t  last.  I  can  Irust  her  to  you.  I  have  other  business  myself  else- 
where. I  must  go  at  once.  You  incarnate  devil,  keep  to  your  com- 
pact ;  keep  to  it  strictly,  as  you  dread  exposure." 

He  bowed  a  cold  and  stately  oriental  bow,  and  glided  noiselessly 
from  that  polluted  presence.  He  had,  indeed,  as  he  said,  other  busi- 
ness to  perform.  He  saw  the  new  danger  that  loomed  before  them. 
Seeta  Mayne  was  now  in  London.  If  Harry  at  this  juncture  should 
meet  Seeta,,  Mohammad  Ali  himself  would  not  answer  for  what  fresh 
devilry  the  sight  of  that  woman,  for  whose  sake  he  would  have  mur- 
dered his  own  true  wife,  might  not  now  suggest  to  him. 

At  all  hazards,  Harry  must  not  see  Seeta — must  not  know  that  Seeta 
was  anywhere  in  London. 

He  started  at  once,  hailed  a  hansom,  and  drove  in  hot  haste  down  to 
the  Laiigham.  At  the  door,  the  porter  glanced  casually  at  his  card. 
*'  Miss  Mayne's  gone  out,  sir,"  he  said  respectfully  ;  *  *  but  she  expected 
you  was  coming,  and  she  left  a  message  for  you.  Colonel  Mayne,  he's 
upstairs,  and  he'll  see  you  immediately.  Will  you  walk  up  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  find  him  ?  " 

Alarmed  and  surprised  at  Seeta's  absence,  Mohammad  Ali  ran  hur- 
riealy  upstairs.  In  the  drawing-room  he  found  the  Colonel,  fuming, 
though  most  unusually  and  unaccountably  polite.  *'  I  particularly 
begged  my  sister  not  to  go,  Dr.  Ali,"  he  said,  with  forced  cordiality — it 
was  necessary  now  to  conciliate  the  Baboo — "  aa  she'd  made  a  most 
definite  appointment  here  with  you,  and  as  I  knew  her  business  was  of 
great  importance  ;  but  she  received  a  telegram  just  half  an  hour  ago 
about  your  friend  Mrs.  Chichele,  and  she  rushed  oflf  at  a  moment'* 
notice,  in  hot  haste,  begging  me  to  stoj)  and  make  her  excuses  to  you. 
You've  heard  that  Mrs.  Chichele's  seriously  ill,  of  course  ?  Ah,  yes,  I 
thought  so.  You  must  have  missed  Seeta  on  the  road.  She  took  a 
hansom  to  Queen  Anne's  iioud  the  very  minute  she  got  the  telegram/' 


THE  devil's  DIB.  167 

•*  Might  I  see  it  ?  "  Ali  answered  with  an  inward  groan,  too  desperate 
bo  think  of  minor  rules  of  etiquette. 

"  Certainly,"  the  colonel  said,  pushing  the  flimsy  bit  of  Government 
paper  across  the  table  towards  him.  *'  There  it  is.  Make  what  you 
can  of  it. " 

Mohammad  Ali  took  it  up,  and  read,  •'  Mrs.  Chichele  took  seriously 
ill.     Come  at  once. — Elizabeth  Wilcox." 

A  horrible  light  burst  in  upon  his  soul.  He  saw  it  at  once.  It  was 
a  deliberate  conspiracy. 

*'The  little  fiend  ! "  he  muttered  to  himself  angrily.  How  on  earth 
did  she  come  to  know  Miss  Mayne's  address  ?  How  on  earth  did  she 
come  to  know  she  was  in  London  ?  Surely,  surely,  after  all  she  said, 
Miss  Mayne  can't  have  written  to  Harry  Chichele  !  In  this  world, 
whom  can  one  trust  ?  And  then,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  thought,  he 
put  his  hand  into  his  right  pocket.  Yes,  yes,  his  suspicion  was  indeed 
correct.  Seeta's  note  was  no  longer  there.  He  understood  it  all  now. 
He  must  have  pulled  it  out  with  his  handkerchief  when  he  wiped  his 
forehead  upon  Chichele's  doorstep.  That  little  wretch  must  have 
picked  it  up,  read,  and  pondered  it,  and,  knowing  that  Seeta  was 
Harry's  friend,  telegraphed  for  her  on  purpose  to  countermine  him  and 
to  defeat  01  wen.  That  was  why  she  kept  him  waiting  in  the  study. 
Her  cunning  had  been  too  much  even  for  the  Blackamoor.  She  had 
lost  all  I    She  had  done  for  Olwen  1 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MoHAMRLAD  AH  did  not  wait  to  listen  to  Colonel  Mayne's  reiterated 
apologies  for  his  sister's  absence.  He  rushed  downstairs  once  more 
(the  colonel  following,  profusely  polite),  took  another  hansom,  and 
drove  as  hard  as  the  horse  could  carry  him  to  Queen  Anne's  Road, 
where  he  arrived  at  last,  trembling  and  excited,  in  a  fever  of  anxiety 
for  Olwen's  safety. 

It  was  Lizbeth  once  more  who  opened  the  door  to  him.  **  She's 
'ere,"  the  girl  said,  with  a  triumphant  grin  on  her  sharp  face,  which  at 
once  recalled  the  worst  expression  of  her  father,  the  periwinkle  mer- 
chant. '*I  knowed  she'd  'urry.  She  come  a  few  minutes  after  you 
left,  Mr.  Blackamoor." 

Mohammad  Ali  hardly  cared  to  inquire  "Who? "for  conventional 
decency's  sake  ;  but  he  asked  it  mechanically,  nevertheless,  from  pure 
force  of  habit. 

'*Why,  'er,"  Lizbeth  answered.  "The  tall  'un,  the  'ansome  *un ; 
Miss  Mayne,  they  calls  'er.  She's  upstairs  now,  along  of  'im  in  the 
drawing-room." 

He  walked  upstairs  once  more  to  the  bedroom  flight,  as  though  he 
had  uow  acquired  by  circumstances  the  right  to  do  bo.     "  How  is  she 


168  miK  DBVtt's  DII. 

now?"  be  asked  the  maid  whom  he  met  at  the  door.  "Very  bad,  rir/* 
the  girl  answered,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  but  they  hope  they'll  8av« 
her." 

**  Where's  Miss  Mayne  ?  " 

*' In  with  Mrs.  Chichele." 

*'  Tell  Dr.  Chichele  I  wish  to  speak  to  him  below  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

The  girl  went  in  and  told  her  master. 

A  minute  later  Harry  came  down,  pale  and  haggard,  his  bloodless 
hands  toying  anxiously  one  over  the  other,  and  his  white  face  distorted 
and  seamed  with  nervous  twitching. 

Mohammad  Ali  glanced  at  him  sternly.  He  saw  the  man  was  moved 
to  his  very  marrow.  But  the  pitilessness  of  Ali's  Arab  nature  stood 
him  in  good  stead  now.  He  would  shrink  from  nothing.  He  would 
punish  the  sinner  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  He  would  make  him  drink 
the  cup  of  shame  and  remorse  to  the  very  dregs.  He  would  let  him 
caste  the  bitterness  of  death.  The  pit  that  he  digged,  he  himself 
should  fall  therein. 

Harry  stood  opposite  and  looked  at  him  imploringly  in  silence  for  a 
moment.  ^'  Hast  thou  found  me,  oh  my  enemy  1 "  he  cried  at  last  in 
profound  anguish. 

"  It  is  not  I  who  have  found  you,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered,  with 
grave  scorn  in  every  accent  of  his  voice.  "  It  is  your  own  conscience 
— for  you  have  a  conscience,  though  you  thought  you  hadn't  any. 
Your  own  conscience  has  stung  and  goaded  you.  But  I,  too,  have 
tracked  you  down.  I  have  dogged  you  and  watched  you,  as  a  cat  does 
a  mouse,  from  the  very  beginning.  I  knew  that  you  murdered  the 
woman  Wilcox.  I  knew  that  you  meant  to  murder  your  own  wife.  I 
tried  to  prevent  it,  but  by  somebody  else's  inexplicable  villainy  I  failed 
— I  failed.  And  now  I  shall  watch  and  wait  in  your  house  here,  with- 
out your  leave,  till  the  end  comes.  If  Mrs.  Chichele  recovers,  as  God 
grant  she  may,  you  shall  keep  your  compact,  and  go  to  your  own  place 

in  disgrace  and  dishonour.     If  Mrs.  Chichele "  his  voice  faltered 

and  almost  choked  him — *'  if  Mrs.  Chichele  does  not  recover,  you  shall 
pay  the  penalty  of  your  horrid  crime — where  you  ought  to  pay  it — as 
a  felon,  on  the  gallows." 

Harry's  hands  fumbled  nervously  with  his  watch-chain.  ''Surely 
the  bitterness  of  death  is  past,"  he  murmured  at  last.  "The  game  is 
up.  I  must  die  anyhow.  Better  death  than  scenes  like  this.  But 
Ali,  Ali,  I  will  try  to  save  her.  I  am  trying  my  best  to  save  her  now. 
Seeta's  upstairs  with  her.  She  came  this  morning.  I  suppose  that 
was  your  doing,  too.    You  sent  her  here  to-day  to  torment  me  further." 

A  light  burst  in  at  once  upon  Ali's  mind.  He  had  dreaded  Seeta's 
coming  all  for  nothing.  He  had  looked  at  it  wholly  from  a  wrong 
point  of  view.  It  was  really  an  aggravation  of  Harry's  anguish.  He 
saw  the  finger  of  destiny  in  this — the  finger  of  the  strange  impersonal 
Nemesis  which  dogs  the  steps  of  crime  everywhere,  according  to  his 
ingrained  Oriental  belief,  and  runs  it  to  earth  at  last  with  implacable 
▼engeanoe.    Seeta's  presence  was  agony  to  Harry  at  such  a  crisis.     II 


THB   DEVIL'S    DIK.  169 

merely  distracted  his  soul  with  varying  desires.  There  they  lay  and 
sat  face  to  face  together  iii  the  sick-room  upstairs — the  woman  whom 
he  had  basely  tried  to  murder,  and  the  woman  for  whose  sake  he  had 
tried  to  murder  her  I  Even  if  Seeta  had  not  been  there,  Han-y  Chi- 
chele's  punishment  would  have  been  harder  than  he  could  bear.  Seeta'g 
arrival  at  this  awful  moment  made  it  all  the  more  tragic  and  insupport- 
able for  him.  It  brought  into  more  poignant  relief  than  ever  the  con- 
trast between  his  wicked  hopes  and  their  terrible  realization.  It  was 
fate  that  tormented  him,  the  fate  he  himself  had  so  madly  courted. 

And  it  was  Lizbeth,  not  he,  who  had  brought  this  further  torture 
upon  the  hunted  criminal  !  Lizbeth  who  had  done  it  in  her  blind  and 
cruel  desire  to  serve  him ;  Lizbeth  who  had  put  into  the  enemy's  hands 
this  last  powerful  engine  to  be  turned  against  the  man  she  worshipped 
and  fawned  upon  1  Kismet,  kismet.  Allah  is  great,  and  his  ways  are 
inscrutable.  Mohammad  Ali  bowed  down  before  this  last  stroke  in 
awful  reverence. 

*'  No/'  he  answered  slowly,  with  solemn  deliberateness,  **  it  was  not 
my  doing.  It  was  not  I  who  sent  Miss  Mayne  here  this  morning.  It 
was  the  decree  of  heaven.  Your  own  crime  works  out  in  due  course 
its  appointed  punishment.  The  girl  whose  mother  you  murdered,  and 
whom  you  then  took  into  your  own  house,  in  order  that  Allah,  in  the 
fullness  of  his  own  fit  time  should  use  her  as  an  unwilling  instrument 
against  you — it  was  she  who  telegraphed  to  Miss  Mayne  to  come.  It 
was  she  who  told  her  of  Mrs.  Chichele's  illness.  It  was  she  who  gave 
us  this  fresh  hold  over  you.  I,  your  enemy,  who  have  tracked  you  and 
hunted  you  down  so  long,  I  would  never  have  thought  of  it.  I  would 
have  missed  the  clue.  I  went  to  Miss  Mayne's  hotel  to-day  to  prevent 
her,  if  possible,  from  coming  near  your  house.  But  Providence  wisely 
overruled  my  design.  She  has  come  here  entirely  of  her  own  free  will. 
She  has  come  here  to  punish  you  for  your  ghastly  crime.  And  it  was 
your  own  satellite  and  willing  slave  who  brought  her  here  to  torment 
you  with  her  presence.** 

Harry  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  him  once  more,  trembling  vio- 
lently from  head  to  foot.  '*  Have  mercy  upon  me,"  he  cried.  "Ali, 
Ali,  have  mercy,  have  mercy." 

"You  deserve  no  mercy,"  Ali  answered  curtly.  "You  have  shown 
none  to  her,  and  you  shall  receive  none  from  me.  You  Christians 
should  be  merciful,  it  is  your  creed  ;  but  we  of  Islam  profess  nothing 
but  the  sternest  justice." 

"  Harry's  face  grew  livid  with  terror.     "  Then  you  mean "  he 

cried, 

*'  What  ? "  Ali  asked,  with  pitiless  precision. 

*'  To  tell  all — to  tell  your  suspicions — to  her — to  Seeta  ?" 

Ali  eyed  him  with  cold  disdain.  "  My  suspicions ! "  he  said,  **  What 
do  you  mean,  if  you  please,  by  my  suspicions  ?  1  have  no  auspicions. 
I  have  knowledge  ;  certain  knowledge.  I  know  you  did  it.  I  m  sure 
jrou  did  it.     With  my  own  eyes  1  saw  you  do  it." 

'•  That's  a  lie,"  Harry  hissed  out  between  his  clenched  teeth.  **  You 
kR«w  U'9  %  lift  ^  pursed  Uo^    Yuu  vm't  prov9  m  Mohwumad  Al^ 


170  THB  DBYIL'S  Oil. 

Don't  drive  me  too  far.  Don't  drive  me  to  recklessneas.  You've 
driven  me  to  despair  and  madness  already.  If  you  drive  me  too  far 
you'll  repent  it  yourself.  You  love  Olwen.  I  know  it.  I've  seen  it. 
If  you  drive  me  too  far "    He  paused,  and  glared  at  him. 

"  That  will  do,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered  calmly,  with  one  hand 
upon  the  table.  "  We  need  no  further  explanation,  we  two.  A  lie  is 
useless  when  the  two  men  alone  concerned  know  it  to  be  a  lie.  If 
Mrs.  Chichele  lives,  you  shall  eat  your  words.  If  Mrs.  Chichele  does 
not  recover,  you  shall  hang  for  it,  I  promise  you.  You  have  driven  me 
to  the  verge  of  madness  with  your  crime,  and  you  will  find  me  a  hard 
enemy  to  reckon  with.  He  who  eats  the  devil's  bread  must  pay  at  last 
the  devil's  penalty.  But,  meanwhile,  I  give  you  one  hope,  one  chance. 
As  long  as  Mrs.  Chichele  lives — for  her  sake,  not  yours — I  will  never 
breathe  a  word  of  all  this  to  Miss  Mayne,  or  to  any  one." 

"Mohammad  Ali,"  Harry  Chichele  said  with  trembling  lips,  "it  is 
war  between  us  now — open  war.  If  it  were  not  for  those  two  women 
upstairs,  I  would  choke  you  as  you  sit  there  with  that  lie  in  your  throat. 
What  I  did,  and  whether  I  did  it  or  not,  no  man  knows.  You  take  me 
cruelly,  at  a  mean  advantage,  when  my  wife  lies  dying,  perhaps,  up- 
stairs ;  and  you  hurl  against  me  these  deadly  accusations,  which  you 
know  to  be  false,  or  inferential  only,  at  a  moment  when  it's  impossible 
for  me  reply  to  them.  For  the  present,  I  leave  you.  If  Olwen  re- 
covers, as  God  grant  she  may  " — he  said  it  earnestly — "  you  and  I  will 
settle  this  question  otherwise." 

"  Go,"  Ali  answered,  raising  his  head,  and  flinging  the  words  at 
him  across  the  table  with  utter  contempt  in  voice  and  gesture.  "  You 
only  add  one  more  lie  to  the  tale  of  your  crimes.  Go  and  attend  upon 
the  woman  you  have  tried  to  murder.  I  know  you  tried.  With  my 
own  eyes  I  saw  you  do  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

Harry  bowed  in  silent  acquiescence,  and  went  up  again  to  Olwen — 
and  Seeta.  It  was  no  time  to  bandy  words  now.  He  was  utterly 
crushed.  The  worst  had  come,  for  the  present,  at  least,  and  till  the 
worst  was  over,  he  had  no  thought  or  care  for  his  own  safety  ;  his  one 
idea  was  to  save  Olwen.     At  all  hazards  he  must  save  Olwen. 

For  Seeta's  sake  he  had  imperilled  her  life.  For  Seeta's  sake,  now, 
he  must  save  Olwen.  For,  as  Mohammad  Ali  had  rightly  said,  he 
thought  now  most  of  all  of  Seeta. 

That  either  of  those  two  women  who  loved  him  should  learn  the  full 
tale  of  his  vile  baseness  was  to  Harry  Chichele  ten  thousand  times 
worse  than  death  itself.  Your  educated  and  cultivated  criminal,  indeed, 
can  die  easy  enough,  when  it  comes  to  dying  ;  how  simple  a  thing  to 
face  death  with  honour,  or  even  death  without  disgrace.  But  exposure, 
oonteiapt^  dethronement,  dishonour,  the  unfolding  before  the  eyes  of 


TBB   devil's   DIK.  171 

those  you  love  of  all  your  inmost  treachery  and  wickedness — what  man 
of  culture  can  stand  unmoved  in  face  of  that  awful,  that  unspeakable 
prospect  ?  What  man  of  feeling,  however  depraved,  can  fail  to  shrink 
with  unutterable  awe  and  horror  and  sickening  fear  from  that  last  and 
ghastliest  punishment  of  his  sin  ?  Not  certainly  Harry  Chichele.  His 
heart  stood  still  within  him  at  the  thought  of  such  terrible  and  utterly 
irretrievable  disgrace.     He  dare  not  face  it.     It  was  too,  too  horrible. 

He  must  save  Olwen  1  He  must  save  Olwen  I  No  matter  for  the 
present  about  Mohammad  All's  hinted  suspicions.     If  Olwen  recovered  1 

Olwen  must  recover  1    And  yet He   glanced  across  timidly  at 

Seeta.  Oh,  great  heavens  !  in  that  case  his  dream  was  gone — vanished 
for  ever  I     He  and  Seeta  could  never  be  happy  together  I 

A  fresh  revulsion  of  feeling  had  come  over  him  now.  He  no  longer 
felt  a  prey  to  devouring  conscience.  The  tides  of  passion  that  swept 
through  his  soul  in  swift  ebb  and  flow  that  awful  day  kept  fitfully 
changing  with  each  rapid  change  of  varying  circumstance.  The  sight 
of  Seeta  had  stirred  up  the  latent  devil  in  his  blood  afresh.  He  forgot 
his  remorse  ;  he  forgot  his  agony  ;  he  forgot  Olwen  ;  he  forgot  every- 
thing save  his  wild  desire  to  call  Seeta  his  own — his  own  for  ever. 

The  devil  had  gained  his  point  now.  Whatever  part  of  him  con- 
science possesssd  was  overruled  and  outmastered  by  that  wicked 
passion.  For  Seeta's  sake  he  could  face  anything.  For  Seeta's  sake 
he  could  murder  Olwen. 

He  approached  the  bedside  where  Seeta  sat  watching  the  sufferer's 
eyes.     "  How  is  she  now  ?"  he  asked,  with  intense  interest. 

"  Worse,  I  fear,"  Seeta  whispered  back  softly  in  his  ear.  The 
dreaded  answer  filled  his  soul  for  a  moment  with  a  vague,  yet  horribly 
fiendish  delight.  Let  Mohammad  Ali  dare  and  do  his  worst  1  Suppose 
she  died?  What  then?  What  then?  The  Indian  was  powerless. 
How  on  earth  could  he  have  been  frightened  by  such  foolish  threats  ? 
Who  on  earth  would  believe  such  a  cock  and  bull  story  as  this  of  All's  t 
He,  an  eminent  scientific  authority,  a  respected  member  of  a  learned 
profession,  a  well-known  teacher  at  a  London  college,  to  attempt  to 
use  his  technical  knowledge  for  committing  an  unprovoked  and  cruel 
attack  upon  his  own  wife,  the  woman  of  his  choice,  with  whom  he  had 
always  lived  on  the  most  affectionate  terms,  and  whom  he  could  have 
no  possible  reason  on  earth  to  get  rid  of.  It  was  too  silly  1  It  was  too 
preposterous  1 

Seeta  laid  her  hand  upon  Olwen's  brow.  "  Very  hot,"  she  whisper- 
ed, **  very  hot  indeed."  Harry  drew  back  her  hand  with  a  sudden 
start.  A  new  terror  forced  itself  upon  him  at  the  word.  *'  Don't 
touch  her,"  he  cried  ;  "  Seeta,  don't  touch  her.  Suppose— suppose 
you  were  to  catch  the  infection  I" 

For  himself  and  for  others  he  had  never  once  dreamt  of  it.  Doctors 
are  accustomed  to  make  so  light  of  contagion  1  But  for  Seeta,  for 
Seeta,  oh,  horrible,  horrible,  horrible  thought  1  That  would  be  the 
most  fearful  Nemesis  of  all  1  Suppose  that  in  his  anxiety  to  get  rid  of 
Olwen  he  had  given  the  cholera  instead  to  Seeta  1 

The  idea  seized  hold  of  him  with  ghastly  vividness.     In  an  instant 


172  tBB  devil's   D18. 

his  fancy  had  conjured  up  another  and  to  him  still  more  awful  picture 
— 01  wen  recovered  and  Seeta  dead  !  himself  left  face  to  face  with  the 
woman  he  had  tried  to  murder,  with  the  full  knowledge  that  in  the 
attempt  he  had  caused  the  death  of  that  other  woman  for  whose  sake 
he  had  tried  to  murder  her  !  And  Mohaiumad  Ali,  taciturn  and  tri- 
umphant, watching  him  through  all  that  lifelong  punishment,  and 
gloating  in  silence  over  his  defeat  and  shame  1  Oh,  horror  1  What 
a  terrible  doom  it  is  to  have  inherited  at  once  the  cruelty  and  wicked- 
ness of  the  most  depraved  natures  and  the  sensitiveness  to  pain  of  the 
highest  and  best !  Harry  Chichele  had  inherited  both.  He  waa 
strong  enough  to  sin,  but,  like  Cain,  he  found  the  penalty  of  his  sin 
greater  than  he  could  bear.  He  bowed  himself  down  and  felt  his  heart 
fail  within  him. 

"  I  came  here  to  nurse  her,"  Seeta  answered  low,  in  her  soft  quiet 
feminine  voice,  "  and  I  shall  nurse  her  through  with  it,  infection  or  not, 
till  I've  seen  the  end  of  it.  I'm  not  afraid  of^the  cholera,  Harry.  I'm 
never  afraid  now.  I'm  afraid  of  nothing."  And  she  stooped  down  and 
kissed  poor  Olwen's  forehead  with  womanly  tenderness. 

Oiwen  clasped  the  white  hand  tight  in  hers.  "  I  love  you,  Seeta," 
she  said,  half  inaudibly.     '*  Where's  Harry,  Harry  ? " 

Harry  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  just  twelve 
o'clock  when  Seeta  kissed  her.  He  noted  the  time.  It  marked  an 
epoch.     Oh,  God  1    Oh,  God  !    What  a  fearful  epoch. 

All  day  long  they  watched  her  eagerly.  The  pendulum  of  his  feelings 
had  swung  round  now  once  more,and  Harry  seemed  to  note  Olwen's  symp- 
toms eagerly.  Mohammad  Ali  hung  about  the  house,  and  waited  for 
news  with  smouldering  anxiety.  They  brought  it  down  from  time  to 
time.  01  wen  was  ill,  terribly  ill.  The  doctor  expected  the  crisis  to 
come  about  nine  or  ten  in  the  evening. 

At  nine  or  ten  then,  their  fate  would  be  decided — Olwen's,  Harry 
Chichele's,  Mohammad  All's,  and  Seeta's.  The  lives  and  happiness  of 
every  one  of  them  hung  for  the  moment  upon  that  single  thread.  What 
turn  would  the  dreaded  disease  take  ?  Would  Olwen  die  1  Would 
Olwen  recover  ?  Mohammad  Ali,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  drawing- 
room  by  himself,  reflected  with  grim  oriental  resignation  that  it  was 
all  fated,  all  arranged  already.  They  could  do  nothing  to  interf«r» 
with  the  irresistible  course  of  divine  events.  Kismet,  kismet.  He  left 
it  to  Allah. 

Harry  Chichele,  upstairs,  left  it  to  the  devil. 

How  slow,  how  slow  the  hours  wore  away  1  How  long  to  wait  for 
that  expected  crisis  1  Harry,  with  his  eyes  fixed  now  on  Seeta,  now  on 
Olwen,  consumed  his  soul  with  suspense  and  agony.  Two  terrible 
thoughts  alternated  for  ever  in  his  distracted  mind.  Would  Olwen  die  I 
Would  Seeta  sicken  ?  On  those  two  thoughts  he  lived  entirely.  They 
formed  the  sole  current  and  thread  of  his  being. 

He  didn't  know  which  he  wished  himself.  Misery  and  remose  had 
now  driven  him  wild.  His  thoughts  whirled  madly  through  his  whirl- 
ing brain.     He  was  only  sure  of  one  thing  in  the  world,  that  everything 


tBB  devil's  dii.  17S 

on  earth  had  gone  utterly  wrong  with  him.  Hia  deep-laid  schemes  had 
crumbled  to  pieces  before  his  very  eyes.  His  success  itself  appalled  and 
alarmed  him.  Ali  had  outwitted  him.  Lizbuth  had  betrayed  him.  If 
Seeta  suspected,  him,  if  Olwen  learned  the  whole  disastrous  truth,  he 
would  die  dishonoured,  disgraced,  and  unpitied.  His  brow  was  burn- 
ing like  fire  now.  He  could  hardly  wait  to  see  the  crisis  arrive.  He  felfc 
as  if  he  dare  not  live  to  face  it.  Oh,  what  a  relief  if  he  could  only  blow 
his  brains  out.  He  would  have  gone  down  to  th*"  study  and  taken  his 
revolver  out  of  its  box  to  see  if  the  lock  was  in  good  order,  only  that 
he  was  afraid  of  meeting  Ali.  He  couldn't  meet  Ali.  He  dared  not 
face  that  accusing  enemy.  The  shame  and  degradation  would  have 
been  too  much  for  him. 

At  five  o'clock  he  heard  the  front  door  shut  quietly.  He  looked  out 
of  the  bedroom  window,  and  saw  Ali  slipping  away  to  his  own  rooms 
for  a  cup  of  tea,  the  first  thing  that  had  passed  his  lips  since  morning. 
Harry  turned  and  gazed  hard  at  Seeta.  *'  Watch  her  1 "  he  said  in  a 
low  undertone.  "  I'm  going  down-stairs  for  a  few  minutes.  I'm  not 
wanted.  She  seems  easier  now."  And  he,  too,  stooped  down  and 
hurriedly  kissed  her. 

He  was  afraid  for  Seeta,  but  not  for  himself.    No  doctor  ever  oatohea  ■ 
the  cholera. 

He  went  down  to  the  study,  and,  opening  the  drawer,  took  the 
bright  clean  revolver  out  of  its  case.  Then  he  turned  it  over  and 
examined  it  carefully.  It  was  all  in  perfect  order,  he  found  ;  and  cart- 
ridges to  match  in  the  drawer  in  abundance.  He  held  it,  unloaded, 
to  the  side  of  his  head,  and  drew  the  trigger  just  to  see  how  it  acted. 
Yes,  yes,  he  could  hold  it  quite  neatly  and  firmly  in  that  position.  The 
deadliest  spot — certain  and  immediate.  If  the  worst  should  come  to 
the  worst,  at  last — if  Olwen  died  and  Ali  blabbed  on  him — if  Seeta 
believed  it  and  began  to  distrust  him — if  all  went  wrong  to  the  top  of 
its  bent — he  would  blow  Seeta's  brains  out  in  the  room  where  she  sat, 
and  blow  his  own  out  afterwards  to  accompany  her.  That  would  be  a 
fitting  end  for  him  and  her  ;  tragic,  at  least,  without  disgrace  and 
shame  and  humiliation.  Their  drama  would  have  come  to  a  proper 
close.     And  then  he  went  upstairs  once  more  to  Olwen. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Lizbeth,  watching  ever  eagerly  and  stealthily, 
stole  into  the  room,  and  took  the  box,  revolver  and  all,  into  her  own 
bedroom.  She  had  seen  him  through  the  keyhole  hold  it  to  his  head. 
Whatever  came,  he  should  never  do  that.  She  hid  it  securely  in  a 
safe  place.  Lizbeth  took  care  the  revolver  should  not  be  forthcoming 
.when  Harry  wanted  it. 

As  the  evening  grew  deeper,  Harry's  excitement  became  every 
moment  more  intense  and  unrestrained.  He  was  anxiously  looking 
out  for  the  crisis  to  come.  By  nine  or  ten  he  would  know  at  last 
whether  or  not  he  was  Olwen's  murderer.  Olwen's  murderer  I  The 
very  phrase  had  grown  familiar  now.  He  looked  at  his  watch  every 
ten  minutes.  The  hours  wore  by  even  slower  than  they  had  won> 
through  that  long  last  night.  He  could  never  have  believed  that  a 
•ingle  day  could  embrace  so  many  distinct  etemitiM. 


174  '  '  THE   DEVIL'S   DIE. 

The  slowest  hours  wear  by  at  last.  At  nine  o'clock  the  attack  was  at 
its  worst.  Unless  it  mended,  collapse  must  set  in.  The  crisis  in  these 
cases  was  always  short  and  sharp  and  certain.  Harry  could  see  it 
drawing  on  now.  It  was  here  I  It  was  here  I  The  supreme  momenl 
had  actually  come.     A  few  minutes  now  would  fairly  decide  it. 

They  stood  and  watched,  Secta  and  he  and  the  brother-doctor,  for 
ten  minutes  together,  with  profound  anxiety.  The  suspense  was  such 
as  none  of  them  had  ever  known  before.  Then  Olwen  opened  Ler  eyea 
(dimly  a  moment.     *' I'm  going,"  she  said.     *' Good-bye.  Harry." 

A  tierce  temptest  swept  at  the  word  through  Harry  Chichele's  wearied 
soul.  He  knelt  down  by  her  bed,  and  seizi  d  her  hand  fervently  in  his. 
"  Olwen,"  he  cried,  covering  it  with  kisses,  "my  Olwen,  my  Olwen  1 
You  mustn't  1  You  mustn't !  You'll  kill  me  I  You'll  kill  me  !  Come 
back,  my  darling  1     Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  don't  say  so,  Olwen  1 " 

The  other  doctor  motif med  him  gently  away.  *'  Air,"  he  whispered. 
*•  Plenty  of  fresh  air.  It's  her  one  chance.  Stand  away  there,  all  ot 
you.  Let  her  have  plenty  of  room,  for  heaven's  sake.  Dr.  Ali,  give 
me  that  bottle  please,  will  you  ?  " 

Mohammad  Ali  handed  it  to  him  without  a  word.  For  the  first  time 
then  Harry  saw  that  his  enemy  had  glided  noiselcsslj^  into  the  rdom, 
unable  any  longer  to  conceal  his  anxiety,  and  was  standing  like  night 
at  his  wife's  bed  beside  him. 

He  could  have  choked  the  black  man  at  that  moment  with  his  hands 
for  daring  to  intrude  upon  him  at  ruch  a  crisis. 

**  Hush,"  the  <;t1ier  doctor  whispered  once  more.  *'  She's  moving 
again  !  She's  better  1  She's  better  I  Quiet,  quiet.  It's  passiikg  oflF. 
There's  no  collapse.  She's  easier  now.  She'o  coming  round.  We 
shall  save  her.     We  shall  save  her  !  " 

One  unanimous  cry  burst  forth  in  unison  from  all  three  of  their  lips 
— Seeta's,  Mohammad  All's,  and  Harry  Chichele's.  *'  Thank  God  !  " 
they  cried  in  a  single  breath,  and  each  of  the  three  cried  it  fervently. 

Afl  the  night  wore  on,  Olwen's  condition  gradually  im[)roved.  The 
disease,  indeed,  is  always  startling  in  the  rapidity  of  its  transitions.  It 
comes  and  goes  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  As  soon  as  the  crisis  is  once 
fairly  over,  things  begin  to  mend,  and  to  mend  rajiidly.  13y  two  in 
the  morning  she  was  decidedly  better,  and  Sceta,  leaning  over  the  bed, 
observed  her  face  growing  every  moment  more  and  more  natural  in 
hue  and  expression. 

Still,  Harry  kept  looking  anxiously  at  his  watch.  As  half-past  two 
a[)proached,  his  anxiety  became  once  more  intense.  He  held  his  eyes 
fixed  so  firmly  on  Seeta  that  Seeta  at  last  began  to  wonder  what  he 
could  mean  by  it. 

**  Are  you  waiting  for  anything  ? "  she  AnkcC  at  length,  turning  to- 
wards him  inquiringly. 

Harry's  lips  quivered  with  a  violent  effort  at  self-repression.  •*  Yes," 
he  faltered  out,  in  a  tremulous  voice,     *'  I'm  waiting  for  the  crisis." 

"For  tho  crisis  ?  "  Seetii  cried  in  an  eager  undertone.  "Is  thero 
■till  a  crisis  ?  I  thought  it  w:ia  past.  You  don't  mean  to  lay  there's 
another,  then,  still  to  come,  is  there  t " 


THE  devil's   DIB.  175 

**  Not  for  her,  my  child,"  Harry  answered  hoarsely.  *•  Hot  for  her. 
Kot  for  her  ;  she's  all  safe  now.  Not  for  Olwen.  But  for  yourself, 
Seeta." 

His  face  was  pitiful  to  behold  as  he  said  it,  so  profound  were  the 
marks  of  anguish  and  terror  depicted  upon  it.  "  Seeta  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  start  of  surprise.  "  Why,  wliat  do  you  mean,  Harry  ?  " 
she  asked,  astonished.  "  Why  should  you  think  any  harm  would  come 
to  me  ? " 

"  It  was  twelve  when  you  kissed  her,"  Harry  answertid  with  an 
effort.  "In  fourteen  hours  and  a  half  that  virus  matures.  I've  seen  it 
do  so  in  ^wo  cases  already.  If  you  pass  three  o'clock  without  adverse 
sytaptoms,  all  will  be  well  with  you.  If  not,  heaven  help  oa  1  it'a  all 
up  with  us." 

Seeta's  cheek  palud  slightly,  but  she  answered  nothing.  Sh«  merely 
turned  to  Olwen  once  more,  stooped  tenderly  over  the  bed  where  she 
lay  quite  still,  and  kissed  her  twice  again  on  her  white  forehead.  She 
did  it  on  purpose.  Wliat  had  she  to  fear  from  death  if  it  came  ?  Life 
to  her  was  of  little  worth  now.  She  would  gladly  give  it  up  in  nursing 
Olwen.  That  would  at  least  be  some  little  expiation,  and  Seeta  felt 
that  expiation  was  indeed  needed  oven  for  her.  She  did  not  know  how 
infinitely  more  it  was  needed  for  Harry. 

Harry  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair  each  minute.  He  could  stand 
this  horrible  suspeT'se  no  longer.  He  muHt  take  something  to  keep  up 
his  nerve.  He  went  downstairs  to  the  dining-room  for  brandy.  On 
the  stops  he  surprised  Lizbeth,  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  sitting  by 
herself  upon  the  mat  by  the  drawing-room  door.  Lizbeth  followed  him 
like  a  dog  down  the  stairs,  and  entered  the  dining-room  after  him 
mysteriously. 

*'  What  do  you  want  ? "  Harry  asked,  turning  round  upon  her  sharply 
with  tlie  decanter  in  his  hand. 

'^  I  want  to  speak  with  you  about  the  Blackamoor,"  Lizbeth  answered 
in  a  c(jnfidential  tone. 

"  The  Bhickamoor  1  "  Harry  cried,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  interest. 
*'  Dr.  Moharninad  Ali  1  Why,  wliat  on  earth  have  you  got  to  say  about 
him  at  such  a  time  as  this,  Lizbeth  ?  " 

"  Enough  to  'ang  'im,"  Lizbeth  replied  with  grim  delight. 

Harry  started.  What  on  eartli  could  this  meari  ?  "  Enough  to  hang 
him,"  he  repeats  J,  incredulously.     *'  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  It  was  'im  as  done  it,"  Lizbeth  went  on,  in  a  soft  undertone.  **I 
seen  'im  myself.     I  seen  'im  do  it." 

"  Do  wliat?  "  Harry  asked,  with  increasing  hope. 

"  Muddle  up  the  geruis  as  you  put  in  the  laborritory.  When  you 
was  gone,  *e  went  meddlin'  an'  muddlin'  with  'em,  an'  puttin'  things 
where  you  'adn't  put  'em,  and  mixin'  up  t'le  cholerer  and  the  morphlft 
bottles,  any  'ow.' 

A  yleam  of  hope  came  across  Harry's  mind.  *'  You  saw  him  do  it  f " 
he  cried  eagerly. 

**  Yes,  1  saw  'im  do  it.    I  was  'id  in  the  dark  room,  an'  '•  came  baok, 


176  THE   devil's  DIB.  - 

after  you  was  gone,  a-stealin'  in,  all  soft  on  'is  tip-toes,  like  them  Black- 
amoors does"  —and  Lizbeth  imitated  Mohammad  Ali  to  the  life — "  an' 
'e  took  the  glasses,  an'  ungumined  the  labels  witli  bilin'  water,  an'  put 
'em  all  on  the  wrong  things  and  mixed  'em  up  with  morphia  an'  stulF; 
an' it's  my  belief" — here  Lizbeth's  eyes  gleamed  horribly — "that  *e 
did  it  just  a-purpose  to  murder  her." 

Harry  8  eyes  gleamed  back  in  response.  Begum  Johanna's  tiger-like 
glare  came  out  in  them  at  once  with  a  fierce  light.  '*  You  can  swear  to 
this  ?  "  he  asked,  with  savage  joy. 

I  "I  can  take  my  Bible  oath  to  it  in  a  court  of  justice,"  Lizbeth 
'  answered,  thrilling  inwardly  ;  "  if  I  was  to  drop  down  dead  this  minit 
before  you,  1  swear  I  could  swear  to  it." 

A  fresh  hope  rose  buoyant  once  more  in  Harry's  mind.  If  only  he 
had  known  this  six  hours  earlier — before  the  crisis  1  He  had  Moham- 
mad Ali  in  his  power  now  !  Plot  and  counterplot !  Mine  and  counter- 
mine 1  Lizbeth  was  still  too  much  for  the  Blackamoor  !  He  questioned 
her  closely  in  every  detail,  but  she  stuck  to  her  story  througliout  with 
perfect  confidence.  He  was  sure  it  was  true.  Ali  had  tried  to  mix  up 
his  infusions.  She  must  have  caught  the  infection,  after  all,  by 
accident. 

He  waa  not  a  murderer  1  He  was  not  a  murderer  I  It  was  all  ft 
mistake  1     It  was  all  accident  I 

On  his  way  upstairs  again,  he  opened  the  drawing-room  door  quietly. 
The  gas  was  alight,  and  Mohammad  Ali  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room  with  clasped  hands,  waiting  still  for  the  latest  news  of  Olwen. 
He  started  as  Harry  opened  the  door  ;  but  his  anxiety  made  him  ask 
for  news,  even  from  her  guilty  husband.  "  How  ia  she  now?"  ho 
intjuired  eagerly. 

Harry,  too,  started  in  turn.  He  was  asking  himself  just  then 
whether  Seeta  had  taken  the  disease,  and  forgot  for  the  moment  aU 
about  Olwen.  **  Better,"  he  said,  recovering  himself  slowly.  *'  Bufc 
I  hat  is  not  what  I  came  to  speak  about.  Mohammad  Ali,  I  know  now 
w  hy  you  bandy  about  accusations  of  murder.  I  know  now  why  you 
t'eel  so  deeply  interested  in  this  case.  You  fear  for  your  own  cursed 
Wliick  skin.  It  was  you  yourself  who  mixed  up  the  cholera  germs  with 
tlie  morphia.  You  stole  back  after  I  left  the  laboratory,  and  mixed 
Lheui  together,  stealthily  and  murderously.  Lizbeth  saw  you.  She 
was  in  the  dark  room.  And,  if  Olwen  dies,  she  can  give  positive 
evidence  against  you.  You  are  found  out.  If  Olwen  dies,  you  shall 
stand  your  trial,  yourself,  for  murder  1  " 

The  words  had  scarcely  escaped  his  lips  when  the  black  man  sprang 
at  him  with  a  terrible  spring,  as  fierce  and  lithe  and  sudden  as  a 
tiger's.  Before  Harry  Chicliole  knew  what  to  expect,  Mohammad  AH 
was  clutching  him  wildly  with  his  angry  hands,  holding  his  neck  hard 
with  strong  sinewy  black  fingers,  and  cramming  that  vile  and  hideous 
he  down  his  perjured  throat  with  unutterable  contempt  and  scorn  and 
loathing.  **Liarl''  he  cried.  "Liar  and  murderer  I  If  you  think 
yoii  can  frighten  me  with  j'our  empty  threats,  you  mistake  your  man  I 
I  9^  no  movd  for  them  than  I  oaro  for  the  wrQt'Oh»<i  poifo^oim  little 


THB  DEVIL'S  DIB.  177 

fiend  from  whom  you  took  them.  I  defy  her  slander.  I  defy  you 
both.  I  defy  you  and  depise  you.  Now,  go  once  more.  I  give  you 
your  life  till  Olwen  recovers.  Do  your  best.  She  must  recover.  But 
if  harm  comes  to  her,  I  swear  to  you  by  the  Holy  Stone  of  Mecca, 
you  shall  feel  my  fingers  at  your  throat  a  second  time,  and  then  they 
shall  choke  your  cursed  windpipe  till  the  breath's  out  of  your  murder- 
ous body.  I  let  you  off  for  the  time  being.  You've  failed  again. 
You're  foiled  and  baffled.  Go,  and  give  in.  The  Fates  are  against 
you." 

Harry  Chichele  was  a  powerful  man,  but  terror  and  remorse  and 
conscience  had  unnerved  him.  He  hardly  knew  what  ailed  him  himself. 
He  let  the  Indian  take  hi,  fingers  fom  his  throat,  and  unhand  him 
quietly.  He  felt  in  his  heart  that  Ali  spoke  the  truth.  Cowed  and 
broken,  he  crept  upstairs  miserably  once  more.  This  last  flicker  had 
died  out  in  vain.  As  he  went,  the  clock  on  the  stairs  struck  three. 
He  trembled  as  he  heard.  It  was  the  critical  hour  to  decide  whether 
Seeta  had  or  had  not  caught  the  infection. 


CHAPTER  XXXin. 

As  Harry  re-entered  the  sick  room,  Seeta  was  bending,  still  vigilant, 
over  the  bed  where  Olwen  lay,  now  sleeping  feverishly  in  the  first  faint 
flush  of  convalescence.  He  glanced  at  Seeta  with  infinite  anxiety  and 
concern  in  his  sunken  eyes.  Seeta  looked  up,  and  for  one  second  their 
glances  met.  Her  face  was  worn  and  somewhat  pale  with  nursing. 
The  day's  anxiety  had  told  upon  her  visibly,  Harry  drew  near  and 
whispered  in  her  ear  with  profound  eagerness,  "Do  you  feel  any- 
thing ?  Havo  you  noticed  any  throbbing  or  singing  in  your  ears  ?  Are 
you  quite  yourself  still  to-night  ?  You  don't  recognize  any  doubtful 
symptoms,  do  you  ? " 

Seeta  gazed  back  at  him  fearlessy  with  her  open  smile  ;  it  had  never 
even  occurred  to  her  to  watch  herself.  She  could  afibrd  to  smile  now, 
since  Olwen  was  mending.  "Never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  she 
answered  with  proud  unconcern  and  a  look  that  recalled  her  old  self. 
"  A  little  worn  and  tired  with  nursing,  of  course  ;  that'a  all,  You 
needn't  be  in  the  least  afraid  of  my  taking  it.  I  never  take  anything. 
I  wish  to  heaven  I  could.  Those  who  value  life  least  have  always  the 
surest  hold  of  it,  I  fancy." 

Harry  gazed  hard  at  her,  half  incredulous  still.  His  fear  and  terror 
were  so  great  and  urgent  that  he  couldn't  believe  Seeta's  own  report  of 
her  perfect  health.  He  fancied  she  must  be  going  to  catch  the  infec- 
tion. That  would  be  so  like  nature.  She  had  kisHed  Olwen.  A  kisa 
was  enough.  The  awful  dream  of  that  dramatic  revenge  had  taken 
complete  hold  uf  his  body,  soul,  and  spirit.  He  couldn't  ahake  it  off. 
It  would  have  been  90  f^bsolute  and  ideal  a  Nemesis  of  his  orim^  ^t  in 


178  THB  DEVIL'S  DIB. 

trying  to  murder  Olw^en  for  Seeta's  sake,  he  had  only  succeeded  in 

murdering  Seeta  1 

"Let  me  feel  your  pulse,"  he  cried  impetuously.  **It  can't  be  all 
right  1  You  must  be  ill.  Let  me  try  your  heart  1  Let  me  put  my 
hand  one  moment  on  your  forehead  1 " 

Seeta  held  out  her  fair  white  hand  to  him  frankly  and  calmly,  with- 
out a  moment's  reluctance.  He  clasped  the  slender  wrist  between  his 
finger  and  thumb,  and  taking  his  watch  meclianicall}'  from  his  pocket, 
out  of  pure  force  of  habit,  began  counting  the  beats  with  methodical 
accuracy.  Yes,  yes  ;  she  was  right.  Her  pulse  was  in  every  way 
normal  and  natural.  He  dropped  her  arm  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and 
laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  high  forehead — that  smooth  pale  forehead 
which  was  always  Seeta  Mayne's  greatest  title  to  artistic  beauty.  As 
he  did  so,  Seeta  started,  and  shuddered  involuntarily.  "  Why,  Harry," 
ahe  cried,  in  a  sharp  tone  of  sudden  alarm,  "  your  hands  are  hot — hot 
and  dry,  and  harsh  like  fever.  Try  your  own  pulse  instead  of  mine. 
I  never  felt  anything  so  burning  hot  in  my  life  before  as  you  aie.  You 
must  be  ill.  You  must  be  ill  yourself.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  Are 
you  faint  ?  Are  you  faint  ?  Don't  look  like  that  1  Don't  stare  so 
hard  1  You  seem  to  be  giving  way  1  Dr.  Ali  1  Dr.  Ali !  Come  here 
and  look  at  hitn  1 " 

Harry  sank  back  exhausted  on  the  bed,  A  horrible  singing  deaf- 
ened his  ears  ;  strange  feelings  came  and  went  within  him.  His  heart 
throbbed  and  leaped  wildly.  The  truth  burst  upon  him  in  a  sudden 
revelation.  "  I  am,"  he  muttered.  "  I  never  thought  of  that.  The 
Nemesis  has  come  in  another  shape.  It's  taken  me  myself.  Cholera  i 
Cholera  1  " 

It  was  quite  true.  The  unexpected  was  the  one  thing  that  really 
happened.  In  all  his  profound  calculations  of  chances,  Harry  Chichele 
had  never  calculated  upon  that  obvious  possibility — he  had  never 
reflected,  in  his  blind  confidence,  that  he  himself  might  prove  his  own 
chief  victim.  He  had  treated  the  germs  throughout  exactly  as  though 
he  possessed  some  magic  talisman,  some  personal  immunity  from  their 
dreaded  attacks.  He  had  pooh-poohed  the  notion  of  their  ever  in  any 
way  aflFecting  or  hurting  him.  He  had  plotted  against  Olwen,  he  had 
trembled  for  Seeta  ;  but  on  his  own  score,  not  a  passing  qualm  or 
twinge  of  doubt  had  for  one  stray  moment  so  much  as  occurred  to  him. 

He  thought  of  himself  as  absolutely  secure  ;  and  now,  &a  Mohaannad 
Ali  had  unconsciously  predicted,  the  pit  that  he  digged,  himself  had 
fallen  into. 

He  recognized  them  at  once,  those  terrible,  deadly,  undeniable 
symptomo,  the  very  symptoms  he  had  observed  in  the  Levantine  sailor 
whom  he  saw  at  llotherhithe,  and  from  whose  infected  body  he  had 
taken  the  germs  of  that  horrible  pestilence  that  was  now  devouring  his 
own  tortured  vitals.  His  plot  was  turnod  by  chance  against  himself. 
He  didn't  for  a  moment  hesitate  or  duul.t.  Mo  knew  it  was  cholera, 
Asiatic  cholera,  in  the  milder  form  thuu  sporadically  prevalent  among 
the  foreign  sailors  iu  the  east-eud  slums  ;  but  a  fearful,  a  loathsome, 


THE   devil's   DIB.  179 

and  A  deadly  disease  for  all  that.  He  knew  he  was  doomed  ;  he  was 
Bure  he  was  doomed,  and  he  asked  nothing  better  from  tlie  deadly  littl« 
imps  whose  dances  and  gyrations  he  knew  so  well  than  that  they  should 
make  short  work  of  him  as  they  did  of  the  sailor,  and  put  him  soon  out 
of  his  lingering  misery.  He  didn't  wish  to  live.  He  had  lived  too 
long,  too  long  already.  He  wished  only  to  sleep,  and  to  forget  it  all — 
his  feverish,  futile,  wicked,  wasted,  unholy  existence. 

One  comfort  alone  he  had,  even  so  :  a  wicked  comfort,  a  fitting  com- 
fort for  such  a  man's  last  day  on  earth.     He  didn't  think  even  then  of 

his  wife  ;  he  thought Seeta  Mayne  would  be  with  him  when  ho 

died  to-morrow.  Thank  heaven  for  that.  Or,  if  not  heaven,  then, 
thank  the  devil  for  that  one  crowning  act  of  grace  in  this  awful  end  of 
a  terrible  life  devoted  in  secret  to  his  deadly  service.  • 

As  he  cried  aloud  those  two  fatal  words,  *'  Cholera,  cholera  I"  Seeta 
Mayne  moved  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  with  her  queenly  tread,  tearless 
still,  but  profoundly  stirred,  and  called  aloud  once  more  in  a  firm  voice, 
♦'Dr.  Alii  Dr.  All!" 

In  the  drawing-room  below,  Mohammad  Ali  was  slowly  recovering 
his  equanimity  after  his  exciting  struggle  with  the  pestilence-stricken 
murderer.  At  Seeta's  call  he  mounted  the  stairs  hastily,  and  entered 
the  sick  room.  Seeta,  speechless  with  terror,  but  still  erect  and  stately 
and  statuesque  as  of  old,  waved  her  hand  demonstratively  in  Harry's 
direction.  The  Indian,  glancing  across  at  him,  unmoved,  took  in  the 
scene  at  a  single  look.  Without  uttering  a  word,  he  approached  the 
bed,  raised  the  stricken  man  like  a  child  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him, 
a  limp  and  half-senseless  burden,  into  the  adjoining  bedroom.  There 
he  laid  him  down  with  womanly  gentleness  on  the  small  iron  bedstead, 
his  professional  feeling  once  more  reasserting  itself,  and  whispered  in  a 
low  voice  to  Seeta,  *'  Send  at  once  for  another  doctor.  I  can't  attend 
him.  I  mustn't  attend  him.  His  is  a  very  serious  case  indeed.  He 
won't  pull  through.  There's  no  hope.  I  can  see  the  finger  of  death 
upon  hJm  visibly  already. " 

Seeta  rang  the  bell  in  silence  for  the  servants.  One  of  them  came 
and  sat  with  Harry  while  Mohammad  Ali  took  his  hat  in  haste  and 
went  out  in  search  of  the  nearest  medical  man  to  attend  him.  By  the 
time  Ali  returned  Harry  Chichele  was  seriously  ill.  It  was  a  bad  case  ; 
it  had  run  too  far  ;  the  virus  had  taken  hold  of  its  victim  with  terrible 
efiect.  His  nervous  energy  and  the  excitement  of  the  day  had  enabled 
him  to  hold  up  against  the  enemy  much  too  long.  He  had  used  up  his 
powers  in  mental  exhaustion.  When  the  collapse  came  it  was  utter  and 
horrible.     He  sank  at  once  into  a  kind  of  drowsy  lethargy. 

By  Harry's  bedside  there  sat  one  watcher  who  watched  more  closely 
and  more  carefully  than  any  of  them.  As  soon  as  Lizbeth  heard  the 
doctor  was  ill,  she  crept  up  silently  to  the  room  where  they  had  laid  him, 
and,  kneeling  on  the  floor  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
with  rigid  immobility  upon  his  white  face  and  clammy  forehead.  She 
noted  every  quiver  of  hie  lips  and  eyelids  ;  she  followed  every  turn  of 
lus  restless  eyes  :  she  anticipated  every  movement  of  his  clutching 


180  THE  devil's  DItt. 

fingers,  ©he,  too,  knew  in  her  own  soul  that  the  doctor  was  doomed  ; 
she  saw  with  eyes  of  practiced  skill  those  imps  of  germs  devouring  him 
bodily  ;  and  with  an  angry  heart  towards  Mohammad  Ali,  she  thought 
of  it  all  in  some  vague  dim  illogical  way  as  the  Blackamoor's  doing. 

In  reality,  she  had  done  it  every  bit  herself.  She  had  aided  and 
abetted  Harry  Chichele  in  his  vile  attempt  to  murder  his  wife  ;  the 
attempt  was  frustrated,  but  it  bore  its  fruit ;  and  she,  too,  was  paying 
her  penalty. 

Morning  came,  and  01  wen  was  better.  She  woke  with  a  start  from 
her  htful  sleep.  Seeta  sat  still  on  the  chair  beside  her.  "  Where's 
Harry  ? "  Olwen  cried,  looking  around  her  anxiously  with  staring 
eyes.  Seeta  put  her  oflF  with  some  passing  excuse.  It  was  awkward 
and  clumsy,  but  it  served  its  turn.  Olwen  accepted  it.  Her  head  fell 
back  wearily  upon  the  pillow  once  more,  and  she  waited  with  patience 
for  Harry's  coming. 

As  the  day  went  on,  however,  Harry  grew  steadily  worse  and  worse. 
The  enemy  had  full  possession  of  all  his  posts.  Mohammad  Ali,  creep- 
ing to  the  door,  beckoned  to  Seeta  to  speak  with  him  outside  a  second. 
**  Don't  say  a  word  to  Olwen,"  he  whispered  anxiously — he  called  her 
Olwen  straight  out,  now,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  without 
even  remembering  what  a  liberty  he  was  taking.  "It's  all  up  with 
him.  He  can't  recover.  He'll  die  before  night.  He's  sinking 
rapidly." 

Seeta  steadied  herself  by  the  back  of  a  chair,  like  one  stunned  and 
whv)lly  disabled.  The  message  was  worse  than  a  message  of  death  to 
her.  She  felt  the  ground  reel  and  whirl  beneath  her  failing  feet.  It 
was  very  wicked  of  her,  but  she  loved  him,  she  loved  him.  She  would 
have  staggered  and  fallen  if  she  had  not  supported  herself  by  the  aid  of 
the  chair.  "  Let  me  go  and  see  him,"  she  cried  piteously.  "  Oh, 
Mohammad  Ali,  you  know  it  all  I  When  he's  at  the  point  of  death, 
there  can  surely  be  no  harm,  no  sin,  no  wrong,  in  my  going  to  see 
him!"         -^ 

Mohammtid  Ali,  observing  her  emotion  overpower  her  with  its  force, 
felt  for  her  profoundly.  He  could  never  have  had  the  heart  to  tell  her 
for  what  sort  of  a  man  it  was  that  that  visible  thrill  passed  through  her 
frame.  '''Come,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  his  like  a  child's,  "  come 
in  and  see  him.  He  wants  to  see  you.  He  has  asked  for  you  twice. 
You  can  say  good-bye  to  him — say  good-bye  for  yourself  aad  Olwen." 

Seeta  rose  from  the  chair  into  which  she  had  slowly  sunk,  and  fol- 
lowed hir;  blindly  into  the  next  room.  Her  neart  was  full  and  like  to 
break.  Her  life  had  missed  what  life  has  best  to  give.  She  had  loved 
but  one  r^an  truly  in  all  her  days,  and  from  that  one  man,  as  he 
himself  had  said,  first,  marriage  had  divided  her,  and  now  death  would 
in  turn  divide  her.  She  walked  as  in  a  dream  up  to  Harry's  bedside. 
Earth  swam  and  blinked  all  round.  He  opened  his  ayes  and  saw  her 
dimly  s*^  'iding  there.  "Seeta!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  thank  you,  thank 
you  1  1  wanted  to  see  you.  T  am  going  at  last  Good-byo,  for  ever. 
Good-bye,  Seeta  1 "  ^ 

Seeta  bent  forward  over  him  and  kissed  him  hard  on  his  hot  fore- 


THB   DEVIL'S  DIB.  181 

head.     **  For  Olwen,"  she  said,  or  rather  moaned,  with  blinded  eyes 
and  choked  utterance. 

Harry  pressed  her  hand  feebly  in  his.  "Now,  once  for  yourself," 
he  murmured  eagerly. 

In  Seeta's  mind  those  fatal  words  rose  clear  and  distinct  as  reality 
once  more — those  words  which,  though  she  knew  it  not,  had  sent  him 
tr  his  doom — "  Never,  never  ;  while  01  wen  lives  you  shall  never  touch 
fhem."  She  drew  back  her  lips,  and  her  heart  throbbed  violently. 
Daro  she  unsay  it  ?  But  he  was  dying  now,  it  was  all  so  different  1 
For  a  second  she  hestitated  ;  then,  with  a  sudden  impulse  a 
womanly  impulse,  she  stooped  again  and  printed  one  burning  kiss  upon 
his  burning  brow.  **  For  myself,  Harry,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and 
.reeled  back  half  fainting. 

Never  before  and  never  again  did  Seeta  Mayne  kiss  any  man. 

Mohammad  Ali  led  her  back,  unstrung,  to  Olwen's  room,  where  that 
proud,  beautiful,  unbending  woman  sat  long  and  cried  silently.  The 
day  passed  away  and  evening  came  on.  At  seven  the  servant  brought 
her  up  a  cup  of  tea  to  the  sick  room.  She  drank  it  without  a  word, 
and  looked  at  Olwen. 

Poor  Olwen,  too,  was  perturbed  and  terrified.  All  day,  in  her  inter- 
vals of  consciousness,  she  had  grown  more  and  more  anxious  at  Harry's 
absence,  and,  as  evening  approached,  she  could  no  longer  be  appeased, 
but  kept  clamorously  demanding  him  every  two  minutes,  so  that  Seeta 
feared  any  further  excuses  must  prove  worse  than  furtile.  Seeta 
dared  not  tell  her  the  whole  truth  ;  and  she  dared  not  leave  her  any 
longer  in  entire  ignorance.  What  could  she  do  ?  She  had  grown  so 
feeble  that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  the  need  of  a  man  to 
lean  upon.  She  left  Olwen  for  a  moment  by  herself,  and  moved  down- 
stairs to  consult  Mohammad  Aii.  Seeta's  movements  were  always 
majestic  ;  in  this  deepest  and  profoundest  trouble  of  her  life  she  moved 
like  a  goddess  dethroned  through  the  passages  and  corridors. 

Ali  was  not  in  the  drawing-rooin,  and  she  stopped  awhile  to  speak 
with  the  other  doctor.  She  was  gone  only  five  or  six  minutes  in  all,  but 
during  that  time  Olwen's  impatience  had  become  absolutely  insupport- 
able. She  must  and  would  know  all  about  Harry.  Where  could  he 
be  ?  Not,  surely,  at  college  !  The  friglitened  girl  raised  herself  in  the 
bed,  and  gazed  about  the  room  to  look  for  Harry.  He  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  "  Harry,"  she  cried,  '*  Harry,  Harry  1  "  No  answer  came. 
She  was  alone,  alone.  She  looked  once  more.  Could  Harry  be  ill! 
Tlie  idea  took  undisputed  possession  of  her,  heart  and  soul.  Where 
had  they  put  him  ?  She  must  look  for  Harry.  She  must  find  Harry. 
She  must  go  to  Harry. 

Harry  was  ill,  and  nobody  .o  nurse  him  !  Why  had  they  not  told 
her  ?  Why  had.  they  not  called  her  ?  She  must  go  to  him  at  once.  It 
was  her  place,  her  duty.  She  could  stand  no  delay.  Harry  ill  I  and 
she  away  from  him  1 

Half  delirious  still,  and  faint  with  illness,  she  dragged  herself  up  with 
feeble  arms  and  sat  for  a  second  vacantly  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Her 
knees  trembled  and  sank  beneath  her     but  she  thought  she  could 


/ 


183  THB   devil's   DIB. 

walk  ;  she  was  better  now  ;  she  would  move  a  little  ;  she  would  go  to 
Bee  what  was  wrong  with  Harry.  She  rose,  and  txjttered,  groping  her 
way  across  the  room.  Her  limbs  were  hardly  strong  enough  to  bear 
her  weight,  yet  she  staggered  somehow,  with  uncertain  steps,  as  far  as 
the  door.  It  stood  ajar.  Some  one  was  talking  on  the  landing  below. 
She  thought  it  was  the  housemaid  conversing  with  cook.  "  How's  Dr. 
Chichele  now  ?  "  the  cook  asked,  anxiously — the  servants  were  always 
8o  fond  of  Harry  I  Dear,  dear  Harry !  And  the  housemaid  answered, 
in  a  voice  that  rang  through  Olwen's  inmost  soul,  "  He  can't  live  long. 
He's  awful  bad  now.  It's  took  him  at  last  in  the  collapse,  they  call 
it." 

Oh,  heavens,  heavens,  how  terrible  1  How  terrible  I  Harry  ill,  and 
no  one  had  told  her. 

Then  the  worst  was  true  I  Harry  was  dying !  Olwen  needed  to  hear 
no  more.  With  convulsive  energy  she  staggered  on  to  the  next  room. 
Harry  would  be  put  in  there,  no  doubt.  That  was  his  own  dressing- 
room.  She  held  on  tight  to  the  door-handle  for  support,  and  tried  to 
open  it.  The  door  was  locked  or  bolted,  she  fancied.  It  wouldn't  turn. 
She  knelt  down  or  sank  upon  the  floor,  and  listened  at  the  keyhole. 
The  floorcloth  was  cold  to  her  poor  bare  feet.  She  could  hear  Harry's 
voice,  borne  towards  her  like  a  dream,  speaking  distinctly — clearly  and 
distinctly.  Then  he  wasn't  dead  yet.  He  wasn't  dying.  He  could 
still  speak  I  He  was  speaking  strongly  and  boldly,  and  sharply,  too. 
So  strong  a  voice  was  not  like  a  dying  man's  !  She  plucked  up  hope 
once  more,  and  listened  at  the  keyhole  with  eager  anxiety. 

For  a  while  the  words  came  to  her  as  in  a  trance,  vaguely.  She 
heard  them  without  understanding  them  or  guessing  their  import, 
though  they  came  to  her  distinct  and  piercing  as  ever.  Mohammad 
Ali  and  her  husband  were  talking  together — they  were  talking  about 
her — about  her  and  Seeta.  At  times  she  caught  her  own  name — 
Olwen,  Olwen — quite  clearly,  she  was  sure.  But  what  it  was  all  about 
she  hardly  knew.  The  house  seemed  to  whirl  around  her  in  a  wild  and 
giddy  vortex  of  sights  and  sounds.  A  hideous  phantasmagoria  filled 
her  brain.  She  only  knew  it  was  Harry's  voice,  and  that  Harry  was 
talking  of  her ;  poor,  poor  Harry  ! 

She  was  glad  it  was  of  her  that  Harry  was  talking  1 

By-and-by,  a  sentence  or  two  fell  upon  her  ear,  in  spite  of  her  deli- 
rium, with  more  definite  meaning.  She  could  catch  the  words,  and 
guess  what  they  were  driving  at.  She  had  no  strength  to  move,  or  cry, 
or  stand,  but  she  listened  eagerly.  Sentence  after  sentence  came  home 
to  her  now.     She  understood  it  all — all — every  word  of  it. 

They  were  talking  of  her  1     Of  her,  and  of  Seeta  1 

At  last,  she  could  stand  the  suspense  no  longer.  She  must  find  out 
what  it  was  all  about.  She  tried  once  more,  with  all  her  feeble 
strength,  to  turn  the  handle.  Thank  heaven,  it  moved.  It  yielded 
easily.  The  door  was  not  really  locked  after  all  ;  it  had  merely  caught 
a  little  on  the  edge  of  the  bolt.  Slie  opened  it  softly,  and  glided,  bare- 
foot, with  her  noiseless  tread,  in  to  Harry's  bedsidft. 


TBI  DSVIL'B  DUL  183 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Meanwhile,  within,  in  the  adjoining  bedroom,  Harry  had  been 
growing  steadily  weaker  and  worse  for  some  hours.  GoUapsb  had  set 
in  :  he  had  been  sinking  gradually.  The  disease  was  now  running  its 
hideous  course  with  frightful  rapidity.  But  just  towards  the  end  ho 
improved  somewhat,  as  often  happens,  in  a  dying  flicker.  Sense  and 
thought  and  speech  returned  to  him  for  a  while — returned  fitfully,  with 
incredible  vigour  ;  and  then,  with  a  final  feverish  effort,  he  used  up  all 
his  remaining  powers  in  one  last  rally  of  spendthrift  vehemence.  He 
talked  and  looltud  like  a  strong  man  again.  The  terrible  force  of  an  ac- 
cusing conscience  was  goading  him  forward  now  with  all  its  awful  energy 
CO  say  what  he  must  to  Mohammad  Ali.  He  knew  he  was  doomed. 
He  knew  he  must  die.  He  knew  it  was  the  recoil  of  his  own  rile  and 
mcredible  crime.  But  no  womanish  terror  seized  him  for  himself.  He 
was  utterly  absorbed  in  the  consciousness  of  his  guilt.  He  thought 
only  of  the  wrong  he  had  done,  the  terrible  wrong  he  had  done  to 
Olwen. 

Lizbeth  knelt  still  at  the  head  of  Harry  Chichele's  bed,  and  the 
neighbouring  doctor  tended  him  anceaaingly.  But  as  the  force  of  that 
gnawing  repentance  grew  stronger  and  stronger  at  length  within  him, 
he  cried  out  in  his  agony  for  Mohammad  Ali.  A  few  hours  earlier 
Ali  had  seemed  his  bitterest  foe  ;  now  Harry  felt  he  must  see  him  and 
explain  to  him  ;  he  must  ask  his  pardon,  he  must  implore  his  help,  he 
must  beg  his  silence,  he  must  confide  in  his  discretion.  Ali  had  always 
been  Olwen's  friend.  To  save  Olwen  pain,  to  save  Seeta  misery,  he 
must  talk  with  Ali,  he  must  bargain  with  Ali,  he  must  buy  over  All's 
final  assistance. 

Weak  men  are  vindictive  to  the  last.  Strong  men  know  when  they 
are  beaten.  Harry  Chicheie  gave  in  as  a  brave  general  gives  in  to  his 
victorious  enemy  ;  he  yielded  up  his  sword  without  one  passing  pang 
of  feeble  resistance.  Fate  was  too  strong  for  him,  and  he  submitted 
manfully  to  its  inevitable  mastery. 

Mohammad  Ali  came  up  and  stood  by  the  bedside,  still  stern  and 
resolute,  but  melted  somewhat  by  the  evident  signs  of  Harry's  profound 
remorse  and  agitation.  With  his  dusky  hand  he  motioned  the  doctor 
silently  from  the  room,  and  signed  with  a  nod  to  Lizbeth  to  follow  him. 
But  when  Lizbeth  rose  and  cast  a  mute  appealing  look  at  her  master,  as 
u'lio  should  say,  **  Must  I  really  go  ? "  Harry  answered  from  the  bed, 
' '  Let  her  stay  1  Let  her  stay.  She  can  help  to  clear  this  matter  ali 
vip.     She  knows  as  much  ab(jut  it  as  you  and  I  do," 

Mohammad  Ali  set  a  chair  by  the  bed,  seated  himself  there,  and  pre- 
pared to  listen  to  whatever  Harry  might  have  to  say  to  him. 

The  dying  'luia  began  with  a  burning  throat.     '*  All,  as  soon  as  I'm 


IM  THX   DKYIL'A   DII. 

gone— and  I'm  going  soon — Olwen  must  marry  Ivan  Royle.  That  aIon« 
can  put  me  fairly  out  of  her  memory.  He's  better  fitted  for  her  than 
ever  I  was.  See  that  she  marries  him.  She  would  love  him.  And 
he  loves  her.  She  must  take  him,  she  must  take  him.  It's  the  ono 
thing  possible." 

'*  Ali  bowed  his  head  in  solemn  acquiescence.  *'  She  shall,"  he  said, 
' '  if  ever  we  can  make  her  forget  the  man  you  are  not  and  never  were, 
without  revealing  the  whole  terrible  t'    'h  to  her." 

"  You  will  never  do  that  ?"  Harry  v.  d  in  agony,  raising  himself  on 
his  elbows  as  he  spoke.  *'  You  will  never  tell  her  you  think  I  tried  to 
poison  her  ! " 

'*  I  will  never  do  that.  Never.  Never.  It  would  be  too  cruel.  It 
would  simply  kill  her." 

Harry  paused,  and  moistened  his  parched  lips  with  his  dry  furred 
tongue.  "Nor  to  Seeta  either,"  he  said  ot  last,  with  timid  shrinking, 
as  if  he  hardly  dared  to  pronounce  her  name — the  name  of  Olwen's 
unconscious  rival. 

"  Nor  to  Seeta  either,"  Mohammad  Ali  echoed.  "Miss  Mayne  is 
not  so  true  and  noble  a  woman  as  your  own  wife  ;  but  she  is  far  too 
true  and  too  noble  a  woman  ever  to  be  told  the  full  story  of  your  awful 
wickedness.     She  shall  never  hear  it." 

Harry  drew  a  long  breath.  *'  If  they  two  never  learn,"  he  answered 
after  a  brief  pause,  "  it  is  best  as  it  is.  I  am  quite  content.  I  want  to 
die.     I  can  die  less  miserable." 

"It  is  best  as  it  is,"  Mohammad  Ali  replied  solemnly.  "While 
your  wife  lives — that  pure  good  woman  whose  whole  existence  you 
have  embittered  and  ruined  by  your  poisonous  love — I  could  never 
have  given  you  up  to  earthly  justice.  But  a  higher  court  has  removed 
the  matter  happily  out  of  my  hands.  She  will  be  saved,  and  you  will 
be  taken  from  her.  You  have  your  punishment ;  you  die  for  your 
crime  ;  and  others  will  suffer  less  in  the  end  than  they  might  otherwise 
perhaps  have  suffered.  For  their  sake,  I  consent  to  conspire  with  you 
in  keeping  this  matter  a  profound  secret.  Mrs.  Chichele  need  never 
know  anything,  except  that  her  husband  died,  as  everybody  will  say,  a 
martyr  to  science.  She  will  still  believe  in  you  ;  she  will  still  be  proud 
of  you  ;  she  will  still  respect  you  ;  she  will  love  you  dead  better  than 
she  could  ever  have  loved  you  living.  For,  sooner  or  later,  she  must 
have  found  you  out ;  and  no  one  could  ever  know  you  as  you  really  are 
without  hating  and  despising  you.  You  may  take  that  consolation 
with  you  to  the  grave.  It  is  all  you  have.  In  your  endeavour  to  make 
yourself  guiltily  happy,  you  have  covered  with  misery,  and  almost 
covered  with  endless  shame,  the  two  women  who,  each  in  her  way, 
most  truly  loved  you." 

Harry  covered  his  face,  horror-smitten,  with  his  hands,  and  answered 
nothing  to  the  accusing  black  man.  But  Lizbeth,  rising  from  the  head 
of  the  bed,  her  whole  face  flushed  and  crimson  with  rage,  confronted 
him  fiercely  like  an  angry  tigress  with  unflinching  wrath  and  indigna- 
tion. "  How  daro  you  ? "  she  cried,  glaring  at  him  with  wild  eye«. 
*'  9o«  (Ur*  you  L-y^i  io  to  'im  ?    Uow  dare  you  attack  'im  on  'i«  iyio! 


TBS  devil's  DI8.  185 

bed  ?  If  'e  was  well,  Vd  make  ycur  black  skin  smart  for  it  as  you 
deserve,  you  liar.  Who  says  'e  done  it  ?  Who  bays  'e  tried  to  kill  'er. 
It  wasn't  'im.  It  was  me  1  It  was  me  as  done  it  I  An'  I  ain't  ashamed 
of  it  1  I  changed  the  glasses.  I  poisoned  'er  with  the  germs.  It's  me 
as  is  the  true  murderer.     So  there,  Blackamoor  1 " 

She  spoke  with  a  concentrated  scorn  and  hatred  in  her  voice  that 
fairly  astonished  both  her  hearers  by  its  profound  intensity  and  depth 
of  feeling.  Harry  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence  of  surprise  that 
ensued  for  a  moment.  "  You  did  it,  Lizbeth  1 "  ho  cried  incredulously. 
**No,  no,  you  didn't.  You  make  some  mistake.  You  don't  mean  to 
det  oive,  but  you  deceive  yourself.  This  is  a  time  to  tell  the  whole 
truth.  There's  something  to  clear  up.  What  did  you  do  ?  Before  I 
die,  tell  me,  tell  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  there's  something  to  clear  up  on  all  sides,"  Mohammad  All 
Baid  as  quietly  as  his  conflict  of  emotion  would  allow  him.  "  Harry 
Chichele,  before  you  die  in  your  sin,  confess  the  truth  ;  tell  us  every- 
thing just  as  it  happened.  Don't  go  to  the  grave  with  a  lie  upon  your 
lips.  This  is  your  last  chance  to  speak  ;  speak  now,  and  save  the  inno- 
cent from  suspicion.  You  lied  to  me  below  ;  don't  lie  to  me  still. 
But  first  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say  When  you  had  left  the  labora- 
tory that  day,  after  arranging  the  infusions,  I  went  back  to  the  room 
oy  myself — Lizbeth  here  saw  me,  it  seems  from  the  dark  chamber — I 
removed  the  labels  you  had  put  on  the  watch-glasses  ;  I  gummed  them 
on  to  a  fresh  set ;  and  1  filled  the  glasses  with  the  labels  on  the  back 
with  santonin  and  water.  I  wanted  to  baffle  you  and  to  hold  you  in 
check.  I  wanted  to  save  your  wife  from  you.  There,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  matter  rests.  I  thought  there  was  nothing  deadlier  in  the  glasses 
than  santonin.  Later  in  the  evening,  as  I  watched  and  lay  hid  at  the 
laboratory  window,  I  saw  you  come  down  with  a  candle  in  your  hand, 
and  fill  the  pipette  from  the  very  glass  that  I  myself  had  just  before 
placed  there.  How  it  ever  came  to  contain  cholera  germs  I  don't 
know  and  can't  imagine.  So  far  as  my  own  knowledge  extends,  Mrs. 
Chichele  may  have  caught  the  infection  independently." 

Harry  drew  another  long  breath.  Could  this  be  so  ?  Could  he  have 
carried  the  infection  on  his  clothes  alone  ?  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  had 
tried  to  no  purpose.  Perhaps  he  was  less  near  being  a  murderer  than 
he  himself  had  at  first  fancied.  If  only  he  could  believe  that  and 
Lizbeth's  story  it  would  be  some  small  comfort.  Accident  would  have 
relieved  him  of  part  of  his  guilt.  He  would  have  died  merely  a  victim 
to  his  scientific  research,  not  to  his  own  vile  and  murderous  intentions. 

But  Lizbeth  rudely  broke  that  last  dream.  "  She  didn't,"  the  girl 
cried,  starting  up  like  a  dog,  with  fiendish  exultation  in  her  voic^  and 
eyes.  "  You'er  wrong.  She  didn't.  It  was  me  as  done  it  1  Me  as 
poisoned  her  !  Me  as  watched  you  1  Me  as  changed  'em  !  Me  as  got 
the  better  of  you  all  round  !  I'd  back  myself  agen  a  Blackamoor  any 
day  o'  the  week.  I  was  'idin'  in  the  dark  chamber.  I  saw  you  a  med- 
dlin'  with  the  doctor's  germs,  an'  as  soon  as  you  was  gone,  1  up  an'  I 
changed  'em  all  back  again,  the  same  as  they  was  afore  ever  vou 
touched  'em.     I  done  it  because  I  knowed  what  the  doctor  wanted  em 


186  THB  devil's  diil 

for.  I  knowed  'e  wanted  to  get  rid  of  that  woman.  I  wanted  to  'e)| 
'im.  An' I'dlj^u  it  again,  just  to  spite  you,  Blackamoor.  If  [  could, 
I'd  put  'em  in  your  own  dinner !  I  would,  you  black  devil  you  1  An' 
I  wish  they'd  killed  'er— that  I  do,  so  as  the  doctor  could  'ave  married 
the  tall  'un.  Oh,  yes,  I  knowed  what  it  was  all  about.  You  don't 
hide  nothink  from  me,  I  tell  you,  I  knowed  it  exactly.  An'  I'd  say 
so  if  I  was  to  die  with  the  cholera  myself  this  instant  minnit.  Au'  I 
wish  1  may,  now  the  doctor's  goin'.  An'  what's  more,  I'm  goin'  to, 
I'm  goin,  to." 

Harry  groaned  a  terrible  groan.  *'  AH,  Ali,"  he  cried,  "there's  fate 
tiere  again.  You  would  have  saved  me  from  myself,  and  this  child 
prevented  you.  The  devil  has  held  the  dice  all  through.  Our  curse 
nas  worked  its  own  way  out.     I'm  dying  1     I'm  dying  1 

**  Before  you  die,"  Ali  cried  solemnly,  "  confess  it  all.  Tell  us  what 
we  know.  Take  back  the  lie  you  told  me  downstairs'.  Don't  go  unfor- 
given.  Do  you  confess  it  ?  Do  you  admit  that  you  tried  to  poison 
Mrs.  Chichele  ? " 

**  I  tried  to  poison  her,"  Harry  answered,  looking  him  in  the  face 
with  a  dazed  look,  as  the  spasm  seized  him.  **  I  tried  to  poison  her. 
I  did  it  deliberately.     I  gave  her  cholera  germs  instead  of  morphia." 

'  *  And  you  did  it  because  ? " 

Harry  groaned  again.  *'  Will  you  drag  it  all  out  of  me,  word  for  word," 
decried,  in  an  agony  of  shame  nnd  remorse.  "Oh,  Ali,  you're  piti- 
less !  you're  cruel !  you're  merciless !  You  shall  have  it,  then.  I  did 
it,  because  I  wanted  to  marry  Seeta  I  " 

As  he  spoke  a  terrible  cry  pierced  the  air  beside  them — the  long,  loud, 
agonized  cry  of  an  utterly  heart-broken  and  mangled  creature.  It  was 
such  a  jarring  grating  sound  as  none  of  them  had  ever  heard  in  their 
lives  before.  It  shot  through  their  ears  like  a  thrill  of  pain.  They 
turned  to  look.  01  wen  Chichele,  in  her  white  night-gown,  and  with 
her  white  face  pale  as  death,  stood  rigid  and  immovable  as  a  statue 
before  then:  Her  hands  were  clasped  tight  one  over  the  other,  and 
her  eyes  were  open,  big  and  dilated,  but  they  saw  nothing.  She  gazed 
straight  in  front  of  her  with  a  blank  stare,  fixed  on  infinity,  and  seemed 
as  if  rooted  to  the  ground  where  she  stood,  in  the  first  full  horror  of 
that  ghastly  revelation. 

Harry  looked  at  her,  flung  up  his  arms,  cried  with  an  answering  crj 
like  her  own,  and  dropped  as  an  animal  drops  when  shot,  on  to  the 
l)ud  behind  him. 

She  knew  it  all.  She  had  heard  it  all.  She  drank  it  all  in,  in  ita 
unutterable  hidoousnesa.  The  secret  they  were  just  conspiring  to  keep 
from  her,  she  had  learnt  of  herself — irrevocably,  damningly.  Intent 
upon  listening  to  what  Harry  had  to  say,  the  others  had  never  noticed 
the  faint  rustle  of  her  bed-gown  against  the  dcor  outside;  they  had 
never  heard  her  softly  turn  the  handle  ;  they  had  never  observed  her 
gliding  like  a  ghost  into  her  husband's  room.  And  now  they  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  very  worst.  Olwen  know  it — knew  it  all  ;  and 
every  thing  was  lost  for  every  one  of  them. 

For  %  second  she  stood  a  statue  of  flesh.    Then  she  staggered  and 


TBI  dsyil'b  du.  187 

fall.  Mohammad  Ali,  darting  forward,  caught  her,  tottering,  in  his 
strong  arms,  and  lifted  her  back  tenderly  into  her  own  bedroom. 
There,  he  laid  her  once  more  at  full  length  on  her  bed,  cold  and  stiff, 
and  called  for  Seeta.  The  shock  had  sent  her  back  into  delirium  once 
more.  She  did  not  rave,  but  she  knew  nothing.  Mohammad  Ali  had 
but  one  prayer — that  she  might  never  awake  to  realize  her  husband's 
shame ;  that  she  might  dream  away  life,  there  as  she  lay,  in  happy 
insensibility. 

Seeta  and  he  composed  her  in  her  bed  with  tender  care.  He  did 
out  tell  Seeta  mything  that  had  happened,  except  that  Olwen  had  got 
out  of  bed  in  a  delirious  fit  and  gone  into  Harry's  room,  to  find  him 
dying.  That  alone  would  have  been  amply  sufficient  to  account  for 
her  condition.  Why  disclose  the  rest  ?  Why  make  one  more  woman 
needlessly  wretched  ?  Seeta  had  enough  to  bear  of  her  own  as  it  was. 
Guilty  though  she  might  be  in  her  lesser  degree,  he  would  not  willinglj 
increase  the  weight  of  her  lonely  burden. 

As  soon  as  he  was  able  he  went  back  in  haste  to  Harry's  room.  There, 
Lizbeth  was  hanging  over  the  bed,  crying  bitterly.  Great  sobs  con- 
vulsed her  postrate  form.  Her  two  arms  were  clasped  in  anguish  above 
her  unkempt  head,  which  lay  between  them  buried  deep  in  the  bed- 
clothes. Harry's  neck  had  fallen  back  listlessly  upon  the  pillow,  pallid 
and  rigid  as  a  block  of  marble.  Mohammad  Ali  held  his  hand  reve- 
rently before  the  half  open  lips.  No  breath  was  issuing  forth  from 
mouth  or  nsotrils.  Not  a  hair  stirred.  He  was  stone  dead.  He  had 
died  at  once  with  the  sudden  shock  of  Olwen's  recognition. 

The  girl  lifted  her  face  from  the  clothes  for  a  munient  and  met  the 
Indian's  eyes  angrily.  Her  cheeks  were  deadly  pale  now.  *' You  shall 
'ang  for  it  I "  she  cried  with  a  vehement  outburst,  and  relapsed  onoe 
more  into  silent  sobbing. 

Mohammad  Ali  took  her  by  the  hand  and  tried  to  lift  her  from  the 
dead  man's  bed.  She  resisted  as  a  dog  might  resist  the  attempt  to 
drag  it  away  from  its  doad  master's  body.  Strange  !  Her  hand  was  veiy 
hot  and  feverish.  Mohaiiuaad  Ali  looked  her  hard  in  the  face.  Dark 
rings  surrounded  her  swollen  eyes  ;  the  pupils  were  small  and  con- 
tracted vertically.  A  faint  odour  breathed  from  her  body.  He  recog- 
nized those  deadly  symptoms  at  a  glance.  He  knew  what  it  meant. 
She,  too,  had  fallen  a  victim  to  her  own  fearful  stratagem. 

"  My  girl,"  he  said,  with  no  trace  of  unkindness  or  cruelty  in  his 
voice,  **  you  are  ill  yourself — seriously  ilL  Yon  must  go  to  bed.  Come 
with  me  immediately. " 

"  I  shan't,"  the  girl  cried,  with  passionate  resolution.  ''I  shall  die 
'ere.  'E  was  kind  to  mother.  'E  was  kind  to  me  I  I  shall  never 
leave  'im — never  while  I  live.  None  of  'em  ever  cared  for  'im  one  bit 
like  me.     It  was  me  as  killed  'im,  and  I  shall  die  beside  'im." 

The  curse  had  wrought  itself  out  aU  round.  Harry  was  dead.  Li»- 
bath  wap  dying.  A»  for  Seeta  and  Olwen,  heaven  help  them,  heaven 
help  theml 


188  TBI  DBYIL'8  DUL 


CHAPTER  XXXV, 

AliL  London  iltig  next  morning  with  the  startling  news  that  a 
famous  doctor  and  a  great  authority  on  zymotic  diseases  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  his  scientific  ardour,  and  that  a  form  of  enteric  disorder,  very 
elosely  resembling  Asiatic  cholera  was  actually  among  us.  Alarmists 
enjoyed  a  perfect  carnival  of  terrorism.  Flaring  posters  assured  the 
public  of  the  disquieting  fact  at  every  newsagent's.  Printer's  ink  was 
lavished  like  water.  People  gathered  together  in  little  knots  in  the 
crowded  streets  and  discussed  the  probability  of  what  Harry  Chichele 
would  himself  placidly  have  described  as  a  good,  swingeing,  sweeping 
epidemic.  The  air  was  all  alive  for  awhile  with  conflicting  rumors.  "  The 
Cholera  in  London  "  became  a  nine  days*  wonder.  It  floated,  lambent, 
on  the  breeze  of  heaven.  Twenty  Levantine  sailors  had  died,  it  was 
solemnly  declared,  in  an  east-end  lodging  house.  A  crew  of  Lascars 
had  sickened  to  a  man  on  a  schooner  just  arrived  at  the  Pool  of  the 
Tower  from  Rio  Janeiro.  Three  fresh  cases  of  the  suspicious  type  had 
occurred  in  Queen  Anne's  Road  itself.  The  condition  of  Bermondsey 
baffled  description.  A  hospital  was  to  be  opened  for  the  sufferers  at 
Hampstead.  A  floating  lazaretto  would  be  stationed  at  Greenwich. 
And  so  forth,  and  so  forth,  with  the  usual  marvellous  evolutionary 
vigour  of  every  fresh  and  sensational  report.  Talk  of  germs  1  no  germ 
on  earth  can  equal  it  for  rapid  multiplication.  Before  evening  Harry 
Chichele's  death  had  reproduced  a  hundredfold,  and  the  cholera  had 
established  itself  as  a  visible  and  audible  reality  of  life  over  all  the 
twenty-four  quarters  of  London. 

The  scare  aied  away  in  a  week,  of  course.  It  died  a  natural  death,  of 
pure  inanition.  Common  sense  and  common  courage  speedily  reassert- 
ed themselves.  People  who  had  at  first  spread  exaggerated  reports 
soon  pooh-poohed  with  sagacious  noses  the  very  existence  of  any 
possible  source  of  danger.  The  one  fatal  case  had  been  admirably 
isolated  by  Dr.  Mohammad  Ali,  the  unfortunate  Dr.  Chichele's  able 
and  enthusiastic  Oriental  colleague.  Every  precaution  that  science 
and  skill  could  suggest  to  practical  wisdom  had  been  enforced  ai*a 
carried  out  under  this  excellent  medical  gentleman's  supervision.  Dr. 
Ali,  fortified  by  his  Indian  experiences,  had  drawn  an  efficient  sanitary 
cordon  round  the  infected  house  from  the  very  first  moment ;  and 
though  this  needful  step  had  involved  great  danger  to  that  brilliant 
and  distinguished  lady  novelist.  Miss  Seeta  Mayne,  whose  peril  had 
proved  a  source  of  the  liveliest  apprehension  to  thousands  upon  thou 
sands  who  had  never  seen  her  and  would  never  see  her,  *'  We  believe,' 
said  the  Times  leader  with  its  oracular  gravity,  "  that  but  for  his  firra» 
judicious,  and  immediate  action,  London  might  have  been  visited  by 
such  an  epidemic  as  has  feardl^  been  ec^ualled  in  anv  EuropeAn  capital 


THB  devil's  dii.  189 

within  the  memory  of  the  present  generation.  To  Dr.  All,  indeed,  are 
due  the  thanks  of  society  for  the  promptitude  with  which,  at  the 
critical  moment  of  great  danger,  he  took  upon  himself  unsolicited  the 
task  shirked  by  the  constituted  authorities,  and  preserving  from  a 
desolating  and  destroying  pestilence  the  greatest,  wealthiest,  and  most 
populous  city  of  modern  Christendom. " 

Mohammad  Ali  smiled  sardonically  to  himself  as  he  read  those  lines, 
as  he  thought  how  small  an  accident  of  fate  might  have  turned  that 
lavish  praise  into  contemptuous  condemnation  of  his  stupidity  and 
incompetence.  Kismet,  kismet  1  it  is  all  destiny.  Everything  de- 
pends on  the  tossing  of  a  penny — especially  in  the  case  of  public 
opinion.  Heads — you  are  a  hero  of  unexampled  fortitude  1  tails — you 
are  at  once  a  fool  and  a  coward  1 

**  The  norld  will  learn  with  pleasure,"  the  Times  went  on  in  its 
dignified  way,  '*  that  Miss  Mayne  has  not  suffered  in  health  or  strength 
from  her  devoted  nursing  of  Dr.  Chichele  and  his  unhappy  widow. 
We  are  glad  to  welcome  Miss  Mayne  back  to  the  restored  freedom  of 
the  outer  world  after  the  brief  period  of  enforced  seclusion  to  which 
Dr.  Ali's  admii'able  salutary  regulations  have  for  a  while  consigned 
her." 

As  Seeta  Mayne  read  those  words,  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room 
at  the  Chicheles'  widowed  house  (for  she  still  stopped  there)  they 
brought  home  to  her  with  more  awful  clearness  than  ever  the  utter 
loneliness  and  inexpressible  misery  of  her  false  position.  No  one 
could  sympathize  with  her  ;  no  one  could  pity  her.  Her  ^rief  was 
locked  up  in  her  own  bosom.  For  Olwen,  the  newspaper  writers  had 
their  glib  expressions  of  conventional  sympathy  and  commonplace  condo- 
lence— *'  her  husband  had  lost  his  life  nobly  in  a  noble  cause  " — "  each 
victory  of  science  demanded  its  victims  " — "  how  could  man  better  die 
than  for  the  good  of  humanity  " — and  so  forth,  and  so  forth,  with  sicken- 
ing reiteration;  but  for  her,  shattered  and  lacerated  and  utterly  broken- 
hearted, they  had  what  ? — congratulations,  congratulations,  congratula- 
tions on  her  lucky  escape  from  that  longed-for  death,  which  to  her 
would  have  been  most  welcome  far  of  all  things.  Oh,  vain  conceit  of 
man,  to  fathom  or  divine  the  hopes  ajid  motives  of  your  fellow 
creature  1  Condolence  to  Olwen,  happily  insensible  on  her  bed  of 
illness  1  Congratulations  to  Seeta,  gnawing  her  own  wounded  heart 
in  silence,  and  looking  out  henceforth  upon  a  blank  universe,  from 
which  all  the  joy  and  hope  and  happiness  had  faded  away  irretrievably 
for  ever  1     So  things  are  meted  by  our  infallible  mentors. 

For  Olwen  still  remained  quite  insensible.  Long  after  all  the  cholera 
■care  was  dead  and  buried  in  back  nunibers  ;  long  after  Ali  had  relaxed 
the  strict  quarantine  which  he  kept  for  three  weeks  over  the  whole 
house  and  every  one  in  it ;  long  after  SeetA  had  been  sent  back  to  the 
world,  if  she  cared  to  enter  it  ;  and  Lizbeth  had  been  cured  and 
remitted  for  convalescence  to  a  remote  sea-side  cottage- hospital  ;  and 
the  other  servants  had  been  pronounced  secure  from  all  taint  of  infec- 
tion— Olwen  still  lay  rigid  and  immovablH  on  her  sick  bed  in  her  own 
bedroom,     ^or  her,  everybody's  sympathy  waa  warm  and  vivid.    ThM 


1 90  THB   DBYIL'S  DIB. 

dear  little  Mrs.  Chichele  so  ill  and  insensible  in  bed,  you  know  I  Her 
husband's  death  quite  unstrung  her.  She  was  recovering,  they  say, 
before  he  died— cholera  and  that  sort  of  thing  quite  subdued  ;  when 
Misi  Mayne  (of  "  Percival's  Tryst,"  that  sweet  novel)  imprudently 
left  her  for  a  moment  in  a  room  by  herself ;  and  up  she  got,  delirious 
of  course,  quite  mad  with  fever  and  fright  and  agony,  and  crept  bare- 
footed into  the  next  room — to  find  her  husband  there  actually  dying. 
The  shock  made  her  go  just  senseless  on  ths  spot !  That  is  how  much  we 
all  know,  from  the  outside  only,  of  all  these  intimate  domestic  trage- 
dies. Even  Seeta  herself  knew  and  guessed  no  more.  Mohammad 
AH  and  Lizbeth  alone  could  tell  the  whole  truth  and  both  their  mouths 
were  sealed  for  ever.  The  world,  as  usual,  saw  the  externals,  and 
nothing  more  ;  and  on  the  strength  of  the  externals — which  were 
nought  after  all — the  world  said,  in  its  easy  way,  it  was  a  very  sad  and 
pathetic  story. 

They  buried  Harry  Chichele  with  full  scientific  honours.  The 
Royal  Society  stood  uncovered  beside  his  open  grave,  and  the  College 
of  Physicians  waxed  loud  and  eloquent  in  his  praise  as  an  enthusiastic 
discoverer,  whose  one  object  and  ideal  had  been  to  save  life  for  his 
fellow  creatures.  In  the  humbler  circles,  Lizbeth,  sobbing,  repeated 
over  and  over  again,  '*  'E  was  kind  to  me,  an'  'e  was  kind  to  mother  " ; 
and  Bill  the  periwinkle  man,  a  hero  still  at  the  free-and-easies  in  his 
London  gin-palace,  on  the  strength  of  having  so  narrowly  escaped 
hanging,  observed  to  his  pals  as  he  read  the  account  with  many 
stumblings  in  his  weekly  paper,  "  That's  the  cove  as  got  me  ofi'at  the 
'Ome  Office  wen  the  judge  an'  jury  wos  a-p'oin'  to  'ang  me.  'Is  'eart 
was  in  the  right  place  any'ow."  And  so  the  real  Harry  Chichele  was 
dead  and  buried  safely  in  his  grave  ;  and  a  fake  Harry  Chichele,  an 
ideal  good  doctor,  who  was  all  heroism,  and  devotion,  and  philanthro- 
phy,  and  gentleness,  lived  on  with  a  certain  transient  objective 
immortality  in  other  men's  mouths  and  hearts  and  praises.  Our  idols, 
indeed,  have  feet  of  clay.  How  little  we,  any  of  us,  really  know  what 
passes  anywhere  beneath  the  surface  ! 

A  granite  obelisk  in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery  still  informs  the  infre- 
quent visitor,  in  chiselled  letters,  that  Harry  Chichele,  M.B.,  F.R.C.P., 
F.RS.,  died  for  science,  on  the  7th  of  August,  eighteen  hundred  and 
eighty  something. 

But  of  all  this  Olwen  knew  nothing. 

Seeta  waited  and  watched  her  tenderly.  Mohammad  Ali  watched 
her,  too.  Her  convalescence  was  long  and  doubtful.  For  weeks  she 
hardly  seemed  to  get  at  all  better.  Not,  indeed,  that  he?  case  was 
dangerous.  They  feared  no  probability  of  death  or  serious  bodily 
derangement.  She  suffered  simply  from  a  state  of  utter  mental  imbe- 
cility. She  took  food  at  intervals  readily  enough,  as  a  baby  might 
take  it ;  in  between,  she  lay,  like  a  baby  in  a  cradle,  motionless  and 
helpless,  crying  at  times,  but  never ,  moving,  or  looking,  or  speaking. 
Sense  and  thought  and  language  haa  left  her  ;  she  remained  the  mere 
outer  bodily  wreck  of  the  Olwen  Chichele  that  once  had  been. 

As  time  went  on,  however,  she  mended  gradually.     The  world  began 


THE  devil's  DIS.  191 

again,  as  it  begins  in  childhood.  They  taughfc  her  to  speak  ;  taughl 
her  from  the  first,  word  by  word,  almost  as  they  might  have  taught  a 
young  baby.  She  learnt  rapidly,  but  it  was  real  learning,  not  mere 
remembering  ;  her  vocabulary  to  start  with  was  narrow  and  simple  ; 
and  it  enlarged  only  by  regular  and  gradual  stages.  She  remembered 
nobody  ;  she  remembered  nothing.  They  had  telegraphed  to  Cornwall 
for  her  father  to  come  when  she  was  first  taken  ill,  but  he  arrived  only 
after  Harry's  death  ;  and  when  Olwen  saw  him  she  didn't  for  some  weeks 
appear  even  to  recognize  him.  She  spoke  of  Ali  as  "  the  good  black 
man,"  and  of  Seeta  as  *'that  dear  girl;"  but  otherwise  she  never 
seemed  to  recall  anything  personal  at  all  about  them.  For  Harry  she 
never  even  asked,  and  no  one  dared  to  mention  his  name  before  her. 
It  seemed  as  though  the  shock  of  that  awful  revelation,  sweeping 
through  her  like  lightning,  had  wholly  altered  and  obliterated  a  vast 
tract  in  her  brain,  the  entire  tract  that  dealt  with  Harry  and  with  her 
memory  of  everything  that  had  happened  to  them  both  since  she  first 
knew  him.  No  wonder  it  was  so.  The  Harry  she  had  once  known 
and  loved,  indeed,  had  disappeared  utterly  as  though  he  was  not ;  and 
his  disappearance,  in  the  gulf  of  that  horrible  discovery,  had  blotted 
out  the  entire  consciousness  of  all  that  had  ever  in  any  way  related  to 
him.  In  its  place  had  arisen  a  vague  and  terrible  shrinking  dread  ;  a 
dread  that  grew  like  a  mushroom  in  her  brain  ;  an  unfailing  horror  of 
being  left  alone  in  the  rooms  where  she  had  lived  with  him  and  had 
heard  his  forgotten  confession.  Bit  by  bit  it  spread  through  her  soul 
till  it  had  taken  possession  of  every  cell  and  fibre  of  her  being.  Where 
Harry  Chichele's  image  had  once  been,  a  nameless  horror  now  seemed 
to  sit  throned  and  supreme  within  her. 

The  confession  itself  was  forgotten  with  all  the  rest ;  but  not  the 
abiding  and  ghastly  terror  of  the  empty  room  in  which  she  had  first 
heard  it.  Gradually,  as  Olwen 's  senses  and  ideas  returned,  there  grew 
up  within  her  an  appalling  consciousness  of  some  horrible  entity  in  the 
adjoining  room — some  grisly  being  that  perpetually  weighed  upon  her 
with  an  ineradicable  sense  of  its  awful  nearness.  She  didn't  think  it 
would  get  out  and  hurt  her  ;  she  didn't  give  it  any  name  or  bodily 
shape  ;  but  she  knew  it  was  there,  by  day  and  by  night,  whatever  it 
might  be,  and  that  it  was  deadly  and  venomous  like  a  serpent  or  a  pes- 
tilence. When  Seeta  or  Mohiammed  Ali  were  not  close  by  her  side  it 
specially  haunted  her.  She  didn't  see  it,  but  she  felt  its  proximity. 
It  was  in  there,  for  ever,  intangible  but  real,  unknown  and  unknow- 
able, an  awful  shadow,  enveloping  and  darkening  her  entire  existence. 
She  vaguely  connected  it  with  murder  and  with  cholera.  She  thought 
at  times  it  was  a  sort  of  sound  or  noise  ;  a  form  of  words  ;  a  terrible 
cry  ;  a  killing  sentence  ;  an  embodied  curse  or  audible  destiny.  Who- 
ever went  in  there  would  hear  it  and  die — die  in  inexpressible  mental 
agony. 

Its  shapelessness  was  ghastlier  than  any  mortal  shape.  Its  emptinesi 
was  worse  than  any  form  or  substance. 

**Papa,"  she  said  one  day,  holding  his  hand  tight,  as  soon  as  I'm 
well  enough,  take  me  away,  away  somewhere.     Do  take  me  away, 


192  THB  DEVIL'S  DIE 

■omewhere.  I'm  so  afraid  of  it.  It  keeps  there  always.  It  nevei 
goes  out,  it  never  ceases,  even  when  I'm  asleep.  I  feel  it  there,  fixing 
its  awful  eyes  upon  me.     It  frightens  me  horribly.     I  don't  like  it." 

Her  father  soothed  her  hand  gently.     '*  My  child,"  he  said  in  a  ten- 
tative voice,  for  Mohammad  Ali  had  sug;j;gested  to  him  what  he  ought 
'to  say,  "  would  you  like  some  day  to  go  home  to  Cornwall  ?  " 

01  wen  turned  the  word  over  and  over  in  her  head.  **  Cornwall," 
she  repeated.  '^  Is  it  pretty  there  ?  Is  it  a  nice  place  ?  Is  it  like  the 
country  ?    Are  there  trees  and  rocks  and  flowers  and  water  ? " 

Tears  trickled  slowly  down  the  rector's  face. 

"Olwen,"  he  said  "don't  you  remember  Cornwall?  Don't  you 
know  Polperran  ?  Dear  old  Polperran  ?  You  must  remember  your 
mother's  grave  ?    You  must  remember  Polperran,  surely  ?  " 

"  Dear  old  Polperran,"  01  wen  answered  with  a  smile,  as  if  the  words 
somehow  awakened  a  faint  chord  in  her  lost  memory.  "  Dear  old 
Polperran  !  Is  that  in  Cornwall  ?  Are  there  trees  there  ?  Are  there 
rocks  and  flowers  ?    And,  oh,  will  It  be  there,  when  we  go,  father  ? " 

Mohammad  Ali,  standing  in  the  background,  framed  his  lips  with 
an  emphatic  No.  "  No,  no,  my  darling,"  the  rector  answered,  boldly. 
*'  It  will  stop  here.  It  shall  never  follow  you.  As  soon  as  we  can 
move  you,  you  shall  go  to  Polperran." 

*'  That  will  be  nice,"  Olwen  answered,  with  a  faint  smile.  She  very 
seldom  smiled  now.  It  seemed  to  have  taken  all  the  gladness  and 
laughter  out  of  her. 

*'  And  there's  sea  at  Polperean,  you  know,"  her  father  went  on,  in  a 
pleased  voice,  as  one  talks  to  a  child.  *'  Sea,  and  clifls,  and  pebbles, 
and  sands.  Oh,  such  dear  little  coves,  with  lovely  sands  in  them,  as 
white  and  smooth  and  hard  as  marble." 

"  And  shells  ? "  Olwen  asked  curiously,  looking  up  in  his  face. 

ITer  father  nodded — he  could  hardly  speak.  "And  shells,  my  dar- 
ling, that  you  used  to  pick  up  when  you  were  a  little  girl,  and  bring 
honiA  \n  your  frock  for  me  and  mother." 

**  T  remember,"  Olwen  said  simply.  It  was  the  first  time  since  that 
awful  night  she  had  ever  said  she  remembered  anything. 

So  from  that  day  foi-th  it  was  firmly  settled  that  they  should  all  go 
in  a  body  to  Polperran,  as  soon  as  Olwen  could  be  removed  with  safety. 

A  day  or  two  later,  when  she  was  able  to  be  carried  down  in  their  arms 
Into  the  drawing-room,  Mohammad  Ali  laid  in  her  way,  as  if  by  acci- 
dent, a  dark  blue  velvet  photograph  frame,  in  which  there  had  formerly 
stood  a  cabinet  portrait  of  Harry.  He  wanted  to  try  his  experiment 
very  gently  and  tentatively,  for  fear  of  exciting  Ker,  and  bringing  on 
a  relapse  ;  so  he  had  removed  the  portrait,  and  replaced  it  by  anothei 
of  Seeta  Mayne,  in  the  fancy  costume  she  had  worn  at  the  Artists 
Ball,  when  she  went  there  a  year  before  with  Olwen  and  Harry 
Olwen's  eyes  fell  upon  the  framo  with  a  careless  glance :  oh,  strange  :  she 
never  seemed  even  to  notice  the  substitution.  Curious  !  It  was  indeed 
^ike  a  lightning  stroke.  Her  memory  of  Harry  appeared  to  have  died 
out  altogether  1  Heav^m  grant  it  may  be  so,  Ali  thought  to  himself. 
Allah  is  wise ;  Allah  is  merciful.    The  brain  is  a  delicate  and  wonderful 


tBt  DBVIL'S  DIR.  1^ 

maze.     Parhaps  in  his  inscrutable  wisdom  this  was  his  strange  and 
chosen  way  of  blotting  out  that  hideous  past  for  Olwen. 

After  an  hour  or  so  Mohammad  Ali  took  the  frame  away  from  the 
little  octagonal  table  on  which  it  stood,  and  gently  replacing  Harry 
Chichele's  photograph,  laid  it  down  without  a  word  within  sight  of 
Olwen.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  let  them  rest  carelessly  on  the  por- 
trait for  a  second.  Seeta  and  her  father,  standing  behind  the  sofa 
where  she  lay  wrapped  in  her  white  woollen  shawl,  scanned  her  face  with 
intense  interest.  She  gazed  at  the  photograph  for  a  moment  with  the 
look  of  childish  unconcern  and  wonderment ;  then  the  scared  expression 
came  over  her  once  more  ;  she  cast  up  her  eyes  and  said  to  Ali  in  her 
sweet  gentle  infantile  way,  *'  Put  back  the  other  one,  will  you,  please  f 
It's  so  much  prettier.  1  like  it  better.  That  one  seems  to  frighten 
and  worry  me  somehow.  I  like  yours  best,  dear,"  turning  to  Seeta, 
'*  because  you  know  you've  always  been  so  kind  and  good  to  me." 

To  Seeta  Mayne  the  words  seemed  terrible  iL^deed.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  and  burat  into  tears.  It  tras  hardly  possible  for 
her  to  understand  so  strange  a  forgetfulness.  His  own  wife  !  the 
woman  who  had  carried  off  that  coveted  prize  1  who  had  been  privileged 
to  call  Harry  Chichele  husband  1  And  that  she  should  wholly  forget 
him  thus  1  While  she  herself— Seeta — a  mere  friend — an  admirer  from 
outside — could  never,  never,  never  forget  him  I  Her  heart  ached  with 
a  void  and  hungry  aching  ?  What  was  Olwen's  grief  to  hers,  she  cried 
to  herself,  passionately  and  blindly,  in  her  utter  agony. 

Only  Mohammad  All  comprehended  it  all,  and  thanked  God  in  hii 
heart  for  that  happy  oblivion.  A  terrible  change  had  come  over  Olwen's 
brain  ;  the  more  complete  and  final,  the  better  indeed  for  her  future 
happiness. 

He  ventured  on  a  further  and  more  crucial  test.  Holding  the  photo- 
graph frame  in  his  hands  before  her  very  eyes,  he  began  slowly  to 
withdraw  the  second  portrait.  *'  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  this  oom 
left  ? "  he  asked  as  he  withdrew  it.  ^*  I  think  you'd  rather.  You  know 
it's  Harry's." 

*'  Whose  7"  Olwen  asked  in  a  sharp  voice,  with  a  quick  little  turn  of 
her  wasted  neck. 

"  Why,  Harry's,"  Ali  answered,  with  trembling  lips,  fixing  his  keen 
eyes  watchfully  upon  her.  ''Harry's,"  of  course.  '*Harry'sl  Harry's! 
You  remember  Harry." 

The  frightened  girl  paused  for  a  second  ;  then  she  shook  her  head 
dubiously  and  looked  pained  and  puzzled.  "Harry,"  she  repeated, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  tries  hard  to  recall  some  forgotten  detail  of  no 
real  importance.  "Harry?  Harry?  I  suppose  it's  Harry's.  Oh, 
Harry,  is  it  ?  Ah,  yes,  I  dare  say.  But  take  away  the  man's  and  give 
me  hers.  I  like  it  best.  It's  so  much  prettier.  You  know,  dear, 
you've  always  been  so  kind  and  sweet  to  me." 

Seeta  lifted  up  both  her  hands  to  her  face,  and  rushed,  horror-atrickeOi 
out  of  that  desecrated  drawinor-roon>- 


*o 


on 


194  THB   DIVIL'S   DIB, 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

The  ship  of  Colonel  Mayne's  alikirs,  meanwhile,  had  been  drifting 
hxto  more  and  more  perilous  watei-s.  While  Olwuu  and  Harry  were  ill, 
indeed,  he  had  managed  to  avoid  the  most  dangerous  reefs — to  put  off 
his  heaviest  and  most  importunate  creditor  by  audacious  promises  that 
as  soon  as  the  quarantine  of  Queen  Anne's  Road  was  once  fairly  raised 
he  would  find  the  wherewithal  in  one  lump  sum  for  paying  him  every 
rupee  he  owed  him.  It  was  magnificent ;  but  it  was  not  finance.  Pro- 
inises  at  last  come  home  to  roost.  As  soon  as  the  scare  had  finally 
died  down,  and  communications  with  Seeta,  that  sanitary  suspect, 
might  be  safely  re-established,  the  solicitor  who  represented  the  Indian 
banker  would  no  longer  be  satisfied  with  such  generously  hypothetical 
and  contingent  statements  ;  he  demanded  fact,  hard  fact— immediate 
and  categorical  cash  payment.  Coin  is  much  more  intractable  than 
paper.  Arthur  Mayne  was  at  his  wit's  end.  The  blockade  was  raised, 
and  still  no  money  was  forthcoming.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  an 
appeal  to  Mohammad  All.  As  a  man  of  taste,  Arthur  Mayne  didn't 
relish  such  indecent  precipitancy,  to  be  sure ;  for  Harry  Chichele's 
body  had  scarcely  yet  grown  cold  in  the  grave,  and  his  widow — that 
■weet  little  woman  with  black  eyes,  who  went  a  walk  with  him  one 
day  on  Hampstead  Heath — was  still  seriously  ill  in  her  own  bedroom. 
But  necessity  and  solicitors  know  no  law  (if  so  gross  a  libel  on  a  learned 
profession  may  pass  unchallenged) — or,  at  any  rate,  necessity  knows 
no  law,  and  solicitors  know  no  mercy  ;  so  in  the  end,  Colonel  Mayne 
took  up  his  hat  and  stick  one  fine  September  morning,  just  a  week 
before  the  date  fixed  for  rejoining  his  regiment  in  Ireland,  and  called 
on  the  Baboo  fellow  at  the  house  that  had  once  been  Harry  Chichele's, 

For  very  shame's  sake,  he  asked  first  to  see  his  sister.  Natural  affec- 
tion prompts  a  man  to  call  on  his  own  relations.  Seeta  came  down  to 
him  in  the  little  study,  so  pale  and  broken  that  even  Arthur  Mayne, 
not  by  nature  a  particularly  sympathetic  man,  was  shocked  and  grieved 
at  her  altered  appearance.  Proud  and  erect  and  beautiful  still,  Seeta 
looked  whole  ages  older  than  when  he  last  saw  her.  Arthur  Mayne 
scanned  her  over  in  dismay.  He  was  proud  of  his  clever  and  queenly 
«ister  ;  it  was  a  shock  to  him  to  see  her  so  changed  and  wasted. 

He  tried  to  say  as  much,  after  his  own  fashion,  in  a  few  clumsy  and 
iwkward  sentences — intended,  as  he  thought,  to  express  his  regret 
without  showing  too  plainly  the  depth  of  his  disappointment  ;  but 
Beeta  cut  him  short  with  an  imperious  wave  of  her  thin  white  hand. 
**  We  know  all  that,"  she  interposed  curtly.  "  I'm  plain  and  old.  I've 
lost  my  looks.  I'm  tired  and  ill,  I'm  worn  out  with  nursing.  My 
life's  done.    I've  nothing  to  live  for,    I  don't  want  to  live.    I'm  dMi^ 


THI  DBTIL'i  DI8.  191 

already. — Accept  bo  much  as  proved  preamble.  Now  go  on.  Nevei 
mind  me.  Never  mind  my  looks.  I  don't  care  if  I  look  like  a  scarecrow 
now.  There's  nobody  left  for  me  to  care  about.  I've  had  my  day.  I 
exist  in  future  as  security  for  you.  That's  all.  You  may  mortgage  ma 
if  you  like.  Body  and  soul,  you  may  put  me  up  to  auction.  How 
much,  bid,  gentlemen,  on  the  entire  earnings,  income,  copyright  and 
revenue,  of  this  broken  and  decayed  popular  novelist,  henceforth  and 
for  ever  ?  No  reasonable  offer  refused.  Mortgage  made  over  in  per- 
petuity to  the  highest  bidder.  I'm  yours.  Dispose  of  me.  Well,  now, 
what  do  you  want  me  to  do  f  To  go  down  on  my  knees  for  you  to 
Mohammad  Ali  ? " 

Colonel  Mayne  twirled  his  watch-chain  nervously.  "  Well,  not 
exactly  that,  Seeta,"  he  answered  with  some  awe  ;  *'  but  I'm  in  a  deuced 
awkward  fix,  you  know.  I  should  certainly  like  you  to  use  your 
influence  with  him  to  intercede  with  his  father  in  the  matter  of  sundry 
acceptances  and  securities,  which " 

•*  That'll  do,"  Seeta,  said,  interrupting  him  once  more.  "  Arthur, 
I'm  ashamed  to  speak  on  snch  a  subject  at  all  at  such  a  moment  to 
Mohammad  Ali ;  but  I'm  your  slave  now — I've  nothing  else  left  on 
earth  to  live  for — and  I  suppose  I  must  do  it.  You  rub  your  ring,  and 
the  slave  obeys  you. "  She  moved  to  the  door  and  opened  it  with  ft 
sweep.  ^  Dr.  Ali,"  she  culled  up  the  stairs,  '*  will  you  come  m  here  to 
my  brother  for  a  moment  ? " 

Mohammad  Ali  entered  and  bowed  a  bow  of  distant  politeness  to  tha 
now  deferential  and  submissive  colonel.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  so 
annoying  to  an  officer  and  a  gentleman  as  the  disagreeable  necessity  for 
borrowing  money  or  its  equivalent  from  anybody  whom  he  has  pre- 
viously looked  down  upon,  or  treated  with  insolence.  Arthur  Mayne 
felt  very  small  indeed  ;  but  there  was  no  help  for  it  now ;  be  must  go 
right  through  with  it  and  swallow  his  feelings. 

He  glanced  at  Seeta,  with  an  appealing  eye ;  but  Seeta  was  inexorable. 
Her  face  flushed,  and  she  said  nothing.     A  man  may  push  even  tho 
women  of  his  family  too  far.     Her  patience  was  exhausted,  and  her 
pride  was  soiely  touched.     He  must  get  out  of  his  own  scrapes  himBelf 
the  best  way  possible. 

Colonel  Mayne,  therefore,  humming  and  hawing  painfully,  explained 
the  whole  matter  as  well  as  he  was  able,  in  his  inarticulate  fashion  tc 
Mohammad  Ali.  At  the  best  of  times  the  colonel  was  not  lucid  ;  finance 
drove  him  into  complete  muddle-headedness.  Mohammad  Ali,  cour- 
teous and  urbane,  but  distant  still,  listened  with  a  growing  sense  of 
discomfort  to  his  roundabout  and  extremely  apologetic  explanations. 
The  sensitive  Indian  felt  the  humiliation  for  Seeta  most  acutely.  At 
last,  when  Colonel  Mayne,  at  the  end  of  one  of  his  long  and  involved 
periods,  paused  for  a  moment  and  pulled  out  his  handkerchief,  with  an 
ineffective  sigh,  Mohammad  Ali  said  quietly,  *'  I  think  Miss  Mayne's 
presence  here  any  longer  is  quite  unnecessary.  We  two  can  manage 
this  business  together  better  without  her." 

**  Now  let  us  understand  one  another  in  full,"  Mohammad  Ali  said, 
after  Seeta  had  swept  out  of  the  room  with  a  stately  inclination  of  h^r 


196  THB  DBTIL'B  DIB. 

head,  and  »  burning  lense  of  shame  in  her  heart.  *'  Yon  owe  my  fathef 
moner,  do  tou  ?  "    ' 

**  Well,  the  Sayyid  holds  some  small  notes  of  hand  of  mine,"  Oolonel 
Mayne  replied,  evasively,  shuffling  in  his  chair. 

*'  Precisely  so,"  Mohammad  Ali  went  on  with  a  patient  smile.  "  Yoa 
owe  him  money  for  advances  he  has  made  to  you.  He  holds  vour  notes 
of  hand  for  the  amount.     How  much  ?    The  total,  instantly. ' 

•'  Well,"  Oolonel  Mayne  began,  twisting  his  moustache,  "  yon  see, 
it's  like  this ;  there's  a  bill  at  three,  six,  nine,  twelve,  renewed 
quarterly,  for  ten  thousand  rupees,  which  I  drew  at  Calcutta  in  the 
year '* 

"  I  don't  want  particulars,"  Mohammad  Ali  interposed  shortly,  with 
an  impatient  shrug.  **You  must  see  that  this  interview  is  equally 
unpleasant  and  distressing  for  both  of  us.  Let  us  at  least  mako  it  brief. 
Simply  state  the  grand  total." 

Colonel  Mayne,  thus  compelled  to  face  solid  facts  without  any  reser- 
vation— the  last  thing  on  earth  a  man  in  pecuniary  embarrassments  can 
ever  be  brought  to  do — muttered  in  a  nervous  shame-faced  way,  with 
ej  js  attentively  fixed  on  the  pattern  of  the  carpet,  *'  Why,  the  grand 
total,  if  you  will  have  it,  must  be  somewhere  about  three  thousand  five 
hundred,  as  well  as  I  remember." 

**  Pounds?" 

"  Pounds  sterling." 

Mohammad  Ali  nodded.  He  calculated  silently  in  hia  head  a  mo« 
ment.  **  Good,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause,  *'  I  can  meet  that  much. 
Three  thousand  five  hundred.  It's  a  tight  pull,  but  still  I  can  meet  it. 
You  need  trouble  your  head  no  further  on  the  matter." 

The  colonel  could  hardly  believe  he  heard  aright.  The  Baboo  must 
surely  be  mad  or  dreaming  1  *' Three  thousand  five  hundred,"  ho 
repeated  incredulously.  '"You  understand,  not  rupees,  but  pounds 
sterling.  You'll  use  your  interest  with  your  father  for  a  general 
renewal  ?  We  can  consolidate  the  bills — they're  of  various  dates  —and 
my  sister  will  back  them  all  for  me  willingly.  Her  novels,  you  know, 
make  a  capital  security  ;  all  going  copyrights ;  and  she  would  be  willing 
to  mortgage " 

Mohammad  Ali  waved  his  hand  once  more  impatiently.  **  Excuse 
me,"  he  said  ;  **  you  wholly  misunderstand  the  nature  of  my  proposi- 
tion. There  need  be  no  definite  paper  agreement  at  all  between  us 
This  is  a  debt  of  honour.  I  will  undertake  to  settle  the  matter  directly 
myself,  and  you  shall  transfer  the  debt,  to  me — as  a  debt  of  honour- — to 
be  repaid  whenever  and  however  you  find  it  convenient," 

•*  But  the  interest  ?  "  Colonel  Mayne  suggested,  with  a  knowing 
smile.  The  Baboo,  after  all,  was  devilish  cunning.  So  much  effusive- 
ness must  mean  high  rates.  He  was  going  to  leg  him  in  sixty  per  cent., 
and  then  make  a  point  of  having  transacted  business  on  a  purely  gentle- 
manly and  generous  basis. 

**  I'm  not  a  financier,"  Mohammad  Ali  replied  with  a  cold  smUa. 
**  Fm  a  professional  man.  I  require  no  interest,  no  notice,  no  security, 
no  agreement.    1  merely  ask  you  to  give  me  your  word  of  honour  that| 


THB  DITIL'I   DIB.  197 

nrhenever  you  are  able,  you  will  repay  me  the  principal,  in  whole  or  in 
part  ;  and  that  you  will  trouble  Miss  Mayne  as  little  as  possible  with 
your  pecuniary  affairs  and  embarrassments  in  future." 

**  And  you  wish  me  in  return  ? "  the  colonel  asked,  wriggling  unconi 
fortably. 

**  I  wish  you  to  agree  to  my  terms  ;  that's  all,"  Ali  answered,  grow- 
ing hot  in  the  face  with  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation. 

•*  What  terms  ?  "  the  colonel  cried,  waxing  red  in  his  turn,  and  glar- 
ing at  the  Indian  suspiciously  across  the  table. 

"The  terms  I  have  mentioned,"  Ali  replied,  drawing  himself 
haughtily  up.  **  I  make  no  bargain.  I'm  not  a  huckster.  My  only 
desire  is  to  serve  you  in  this  matter." 

*'  With  no  ulterior  end  ? "  the  colonel  suggested,  still  very  angry, 
but  with  an  insinuating  smile. 

**  I  can  have  nc  ulterior  end  on  earth,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered, 
not  guessing  his  false  tack,  *' except  to  serve  c  friend  of  Mrs.  Chi- 
chele's." 

The  colonel  nodded.  So  that  was  the  way  the  wind  blew,  was  it  ? 
Really  the  native  mind  is  quite  inscrutable.  He  could  hardly  under- 
stand this  high  and  mighty  Baboo  fellow.  The  man  gave  himself  such 
ridiculous  airs — pretending  to  the  sentiments  and  manners  of  a  gentle- 
man. But  business  is  business  ;  and  in  business  matters  one  must 
sometimes  knuckle  down  to  the  men  who  hold  the  whip-hand  over  you. 
Colonel  Mayne  dissembled  his  insolence  and  dislike,  and  added  in  n 
tone  intended  to  be  positively  genial,  "Then  you  will  telegraph  over 
about  the  matter  at  once  for  me  ?  " 

Mohammad  Ali  bowed  his  head  in  silence.  ''I'll  telegraph  over," 
he  added  shortly. 

'*  And  you'll  stop  these  confounded  solicitor  people  1 " 

"  Certainly.  I'll  call  upon  them  in  Chancery  Lane  to-morrow  morn- 
ing.'* 

The  colonel  hummed.  **  Of  course,"  he  said,  **  I  shall  be  happy. 
Dr.  Ali,  t<o  pay  any  little  expenses  you  may  incur  in  the  matter — the 
telegram  and  so  forth." 

Mohammad  Ali  rose  from  his  chair  like  a  wounded  creature  and 
gazed  at  the  Englishman  with  supreme  contempt.  Mohammad  Ali 
spoke  with  crushing  distinctness.  "  When  a  gentleman  endeavours  to 
do  some  small  act  of  politeness  to  serve  another,"  he  said  quietly,  "  he 
does  not  expect  to  be  paid  his  expenses." 

Colonel  Mayne  shrank  into  his  boots.  To  what  beastly  rebuffs  one 
exposes  one's  self,  really,  when  once  one  begins  to  accept  favours  from 
one's  natural  inferiors.  **  Then  I  may  understand,"  he  said  in  a  feebU 
tone,  "that  you  will  induce  your  father  immediately  to  abandon  al) 
proceedings  f  " 

"The  money  shall  be  paid  to-morrow,"  Ali  answered,  still  standing 

•*  The  money  ?    What  money  ? " 

*'  The  money  you  owe  him.  I  will  sell  out  stock  of  my  own  this 
afternoon  in  order  to  settle  it." 

Colonel  Mayne  stared.  "  Then  you  don't  mean  to  ask  yoar  fathui 
l9  wait  for  it  t "  b«  exclaimed  in  surprise. 


198  THI   DIYIL'I  DIl. 

**  I  think  far  too  highly  of  Miss  Mayne,"  Mohammad  Ali  answered , 
with  a  touch  of  scorn  in  his  clear  soft  voice,  "  ever  to  dream  of  letting 
any  one  else  on  earth  know  that  her  brother  had  been  compelled  to 
seek  my  aid  in  his  pecuniary  difficulties.  I  regret  you  should  have  let 
her  know,  yourself.  As  it  is,  she  shall  never  learn  the  extent  and  mode 
of  your  indebtedness  to  me,  unless  you  yourself  tell  her,  which  I  trust 
you  will  have  the  delicacy  and  kindness  not  to  do.  So  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, I  shall  merely  say  to  her  that  the  question  of  your  liabilities 
has  been  amicably  settled  between  us  on  easy  terms,  without  the  necos- 
sity  for  her  own  intervention  as  a  personal  security.  My  father  shall 
know  nothing  at  all  about  this  business,  except  that  his  solicitors  have 
been  paid  in  full  the  whole  sum  due  from  you,  principal  and  interest. 
The  debt  shall  remain  a  debt  of  honour  between  you  and  me,  as  long 
as  you  like,  repayable  whenever  you  find  it  convenient.  Is  that  clear 
enough  ?  Very  well,  then.  Now  the  question  has  been  quite  thrashed 
out.  This  is  a  painful  and  uncomfortable  interview  for  both  of  us.  Lot 
as  cut  it  short  at  once.  Let  us  go  upstairs  and  join  Miss  Mayne  and 
Mrs.  Chichele." 

They  mountfed  the  stairs  together  in  silence.  In  the  drawing-room 
they  found  the  rector,  Olwen  and  Seeta. 

Mohammad  Ali  joined  the  two  women  by  the  window.  Colonel 
Mayne  fell  into  a  chat  in  the  back  part  of  the  room  with  Mr.  Tregellas. 

*'Ah,  yes,  a  very  kind  fellow,  the  Mohammedan,"  the  rector 
remarked,  with  a  graceful  air  of  condescending  liberality,  "and 
extremely  good  to  my  poor  daughter.  She  quite  likes  him.  •  He's  so 
gentle  and  painstaking.  A  very  excellent  fellow,  with  such  nice  feel- 
nigs — such  nice  feelings,  you  know,  for  a  black  man  1  " 

**  Very  much  so  indeed,"  the  colonel  echoed  shortly,  biting  hia 
moustache,  and  strolling  towards  the  window. 

Seeta  accompanied  her  brother  to  the  door  when  he  left.  "You've 
settled  the  matter  ? "  she  asked,  in  an  undertone  in  the  vestibule. 

'*Ye-e8,"  the  colonel  answered  hesitating.  "We've  settled  the 
matter." 

*'  And  you  want  my  signature  ?  " 

**  N-no  ;  not  exactly.  He'll  do  without  security.  He  consents  to 
make  it  a  debt  of  honour. " 

**  A  debt  of  honour  1    Then  he  means  to  pay  the  solicitors  himself  I " 

**  Well — eh— so  I  understand  him." 

**  Out  of  his  own  pocket  ? " 

**  Ye-yes.  But,  Seeta — don't  say  so.  He  particularly  begged  me 
never  to  tell  you." 

Seeta  started,  and  her  cheek  flushed  crimson.  "And  you'll  allow 
him,  Arthur  ?"  she  cried,  all  her  heart  sinking  with  shame  within  her. 

The  colonel  evinced  a  deep  interest  in  the  lining  of  his  hat.  "  His 
father's  had  a  lot  of  my  money  already,"  he  answered  evasively. 

'*His  father  I"  Seeta  cried.  "  What  on  earth  does  that  matter? 
ffe'i  not  his  father.  Arthur  I  Arthur  1  I'll  never  believe  you're  a 
Maynf   .^gain  if  you  can  sleep  on  your  pillow  at  night  till  yoa  ve  paid 


TBI  DtTIL'f  DIl.  199 

lilm  every  farthing  at  compound  interest.  If  you  don't,  I  will.  I'll 
write  my  fingers  to  the  bone  to  pay  it.  I'll  burn  my  candle  far  into 
the  night  every  night  of  the  year,  sooner  than  you  should  be  indebted 
to  him  for  it.  I'll  flood  the  libraries  with  novels  by  the  score  rather 
than  let  him  do  it.  You  cad  1  You  cur  !  You  miserable  sneak,  you  1 
To  take  that  man's  money  when  you  called  him  a  Baboo  I  Why,  he's 
worth  ten  thousand  such  limp  parodies  of  a  man  as  you  are  !  Arthur, 
I'm  ashamed  of  you  1  And  I'm  ashamed  to  look  at  him.  I  shall  pay 
him  back,  if  I  write  myself  dead  with  it  1 " 

The  colonel  put  on  his  hat  with  a  crush  and  .went.  It's  ill  talking 
with  angry  woman— especially  when  you  know  she's  got  the  right  of 
you.  H  e  certainly  did  feel  rather  small.  He  hadn't  come  out  of  it 
exactly  with  credit.  But  it  was  some  comfort  to  think  that  that  three 
thousand  five  hundred  was  cleared  off,  anyhow.  The  jingling  of  the 
guinea  is  most  absorbing  music.  One  of  these  fine  days  he  must  try  to 
repay  Mohammad  Ali. 

Thank* heaven,  anyhow,  he  could  now  rejoin  his  regiment  at  London- 
derry. 

A  week  or  two  later  they  began  to  make  preparations  for  their  move 
to  Cornwall.  The  house  in  London  was  to  be  given  up,  for  Olwen's 
present  income  would  not  suffice  to  keep  it  going  ;  and  they  were  'all 
busy  selecting  the  things  to  be  kept  and  the  things  to  be  sold  i»^  the 
sale  that  Mr.  Tregelias  contemplated.  Olwen,  now  fairly  convalescent 
in  general  health,  but  still  quite  childish  in  manner  and  memory,  helped 
to  choose  out  her  own  special  belongings.  She  wanted  to  keep  several 
little  ornaments,  but  amongst  them  wore  no  personal  mementoes  of 
Harry.  Seeta  was  appalled  to  see  her  pass  them  all  unnoticed  by  ;  it 
seemed  to  her  nothing  short  of  heart-rending.  Mohammad  Ali  dared 
not  explain.  He  only  said,  in  his  pensive  Indian  voice,  **  It's  better 
so.  Let  her  forget,  if  she  can.  The  one  thing  I  dread  is  her  ever 
remembering. " 

Seeta  felt  that  she  dreaded  it,  too  ;  but,  for  all  that,  Olwen's  forget- 
fulness  weighed  upon  her  heart  like  a  hideous  nightmare. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  furniture  in  the  boudoir.  There,  over  the 
mantlepiece,  hung  a  water-colour  portrait — the  portrait  of  a  bright  girlish 
figure  in  light  summer  dress,  her  hat  in  her  hand,  standing  out  in  bold 
relief  against  a  rustic  background  of  a  wooden  posted  porch  and  some 
clambering  roses.  Olwen  stood  before  it  and  gazed  at  it  long.  "  You 
wun't  take  that,"  Mohammad  Ali  said,  to  see  how  she  would  answer. 

Olwen  lifted  her  eyes  with  a  flash  to  his,  and  answered,  '*  Yes,"  quite 
simply. 

**  I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  he  suggested  once  more. 

Olwen  glanced  at  the  portrait  with  profounder  interest  and  intelli- 
gence than  usual  Then  she  sighed  a  deep  sigh.  *'  Oh  yes,"  said  cried 
with  a  sudden  rush  of  colour  to  her  pallid  cheek,  *'  we  must  take  that, 
whatever  we  leave.  It  was  Ivan  Royle  who  painted  that  for  me,  you 
know— « long  time  ago— down  in  the  place  we're  going  to-  CornweU." 


200  THB   DKVIL'S  DIl. 

It  waa  the  first  time  she  had  ever  remembered  anything  of  her  owii 
accord,  without  having  it  recalled  to  her.  Mohammad  AH  was  half 
pleased  and  half  frightened.  Let  her  forget.  It  was  better  so.  *'  Who 
painted  it,  did  you  say  ?  "  he  asked  again,  as  if  to  reassure  himself. 

Olwen  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  with  a  bright  eye.  *'  Ivan  Royle," 
she  said.  "He  painted  it,  and  gave  it  to  me.  1  remember  it  all  quite 
well  now.  It  was  down  at  Polperran.  I  liked  Ivan.  And  I  wouldn't 
go  away  without  it  now  for  all  of  the  universe." 

That  evening,  when  Ali  was  gone,  Olwen  sat  down  by  herself  listlessly 
at  a  writing-table.  She  had  recovered  the  art  of  writing  by  this  time, 
and  at  Seeta's  direction,  she  scribbled  a  short  and  hasty  note  to  the 
banker  about  some  small  money  matter,  and  proceeded  to  sign  it — 
"Olwen  Tregellas." 

'*  That  won't  do,  darling,"  Seeta  muttered,  half  aghast,  looking  over 
her  shoulder.  "  You  know  you  must  sign  it  in  your  married  name, 
•Olwen  Chichele.'" 

Olwen  gazed  at  the  paper  for  a  minute,  perturbed.  Then  s'he  bursl 
into  a  flood  of  childish  tears.  *'  I  can't  understand  it,"  she  cried.  **I 
don't  understand  it  at  all,  Seeta.  I  do  remember  my  own  name.  I 
always  used  to  sign  myself  *  Olwen  Tregellas.'  " 

Seeta  clenched  her  hands  hard,  and  drove  her  nails  deep  into  the 
palm.  If  she  hadn't,  she  couldn't  have  kept  herself  from  crying  aloud 
with  a  great  cry.     So  utterly,  then,  was  Harry  forgotten  1 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

At  Polperran,  Olwen  grew  rapidly  stronger  in  bodily  health,  and  h«T 
mental  powers,  too,  returned  to  her  by  slower  degrees,  though  she  still 
remained  in  many  ways  extremely  childish.  She  could  walk  and  talk  and 
read  and  write.  But  the  cloud  hung  over  her  nature  yet,  as  might  well 
have  been  expected  ;  so  terrible  a  shock  left  its  desolating  mark  deep 
behind,  impressed  and  scored  upon  every  chord  and  fibre  of  her 
unstrung  system.  She  loved  to  take  the  old  rambles  among  the  coves 
and  cliffs  ;  she  remembered  them  all  now,  as  through  a  mist  of  years  ; 
not  as  most  people  remember  the  well-known  scenes  of  adult  life,  bui 
as  we  all  remember  persons  and  spots  that  we  knew  dimly  in  the  first 
stAge  of  early  childhood.  Now  and  again  she  would  say,  with  a  flush 
of  pleased  recollection,  "This  is  Lanyon  Pool,"  or  "This  is  Dolly 
Pengellas  ;  "  places  and  faces  came  back  to  her  vaguely,  as  they  come 
back  to  one  who  revisits  after  a  long  and  active  life  the  scenes  of  hit 
first  dim  boyish  adventures.  But  not  a  single  thought  of  Harry  ever 
crossed  her  poor  little  troubled  mind  ;  he  was  to  her  as  though  he  had 
never  been  ;  that  one  fearful  scene  in  the  dressing-room  at  Queeq 
Anne'i  Road,  in  sweeping  fiercely  through  her,  had  swept  awajr  utterly 


THB  DBYIL's  DIB.  201 

the  Harry  she  had  once  known  and  loved.  She  could  rebuild  no  other 
now  in  her  bewildered  memory.  It  was  all  a  blank,  as  though  it  had 
not  been.     Her  earlier  life  alone  returned  to  her 

Nevertheless,  a  great  sadness  and  darkness  oppressed  her  days. 
Unconsciously  to  herself,  she  felt  the  need  of  somebody  to  lean  upon. 
Her  lonelmess  was  ever  present  to  her  mind,  though  loneliness  for 
whom  or  for  what  she  knew  not.  "  I  feel  so  desolate,"  she  often  sair 
with  tears  in  her  eyes  to  Seeta.  **  You're  very  kind,  you  know,  dear, 
and  so's  the  good  black  man  ;  and  papa's  always  tenderness  and  sweet- 
ness itself  to  me,  but  I  have  a  sort  of  aching  want  in  my  heart,  some- 
how ;  I  seem  to  miss  somebody  or  something.  It  was  torn  out,  I  don't 
know  how.  I  think  1  lost  it  in  the  next  room  there.  I'd  have  gone  to 
look  in  for  it  before  we  left  London,  only  I  always  so  dreadfully  afraid. 
That  was  a  horrid  room  ;  I  hated  it,  Seeta  ;  it  makes  me  shudder  even 
now  to  remember  it. " 

'*  You  shall  never  go  back  there,  dear,"  Seeta  answered  as  bravely 
as  she  could.  "  You  shall  always  stop  here  with  your  father  and  me. 
I  shall  never  leave  you.  I'll  stay  with  you  always  now  and  take  care 
of  you." 

"That's  a  dear,"  Olwen  would  reply,  pressing  her  friend's  hand 
tenderly.  "  But  oh,  Seeta,  I  am  so  lonely.  I  do  wish  I  could  feel  like 
1  used  to  do." 

At  last,  in  the  spring,  as  the  young  birches  in  the  rectory  garden 
were  beginning  to  put  forth  their  tender  green  leaflets  on  the  slight  lithe 
twigs,  Olwen,  strolling  slowly  down  the  gravel  path,  and  picking  cow- 
slips from  the  rough  grass-plot  beside  her  as  she  went,  said  abruptly 
one  sunshiny  morning  to  Seeta,  '*  I  do  wish  Ivan  Royle  was  here,  Seeta  I 
What  a  nice  time  we  had  here  once  I  How  he'd  love  to  paint  tliat  deli- 
cate little  bit  there  1 " 

Seeta,  aghast  and  not  a  little  dismayed — for  talk  about  Ivan  was  to 
her  the  most  disloyal  treason  to  Harry — answered  in  a  voice  half  choked 
with  horror,  *'  I  dare  say  he  would,  dear.     It's  very  pretty." 

Olwen  walked  on  a  step  or  two  in  silence.  The  leaves  were  rustling 
and  shivering  in  the  breeze.  Then  she  murmured  once  more,  '*  Ivan 
Royle  was  fond  of  sketching  in  the  garden  here.  He  used  to  make 
such  beautiful  delicate  sketches.  I  wonder  you  never  hear  from  Ivan. 
I  should  like  very  much  to  see  him  again.  After  all,  he  was  a  very 
dear,  kind  folWw." 

"Ivan  Roylb  A^ld  paint  it  in  colours  exquisitely,"  Olwen  went  on 
in  childish  innocence  of  the  cruel  stabs  she  was  giving  each  time  she 
spoke  to  Seeta.  **  He  has  a  wonderful  touch  for  foliage  and  flowers. 
He  paints  long  sprays  and  festoons  of  creepers  as  I  never  saw  anybody 
else  paint  thoni.  I  used  to  admire  his  work  so  much.  He'd  bit  here 
and  paint  and  talk  to  rae.  You  know  I  nursed  him  through  a  danger- 
ous illness." 

'*!  know,  dear,"  Seeta  answered,  hardly  able  to  bear  up  against  hef 
trickling  tears,  which  threatened  to  burst  forth  like  summer  showers. 
*'  But  don't  talk  about  it.  It  isn't  good  for  you.  I^  ^^om  you  h*ra| 
(o  t»lk  About  tbow  old,  old  Umte,  di^rling," 


S02  THE  DEVIL'i  DIl. 

**  I  like  talking  about  Ivan,  though,"  Olwen  answered  simply.  **  It 
iin't  like  the  rest.  Everything  else  about  then  seems  to  puzzle  me  and 
worry  me.  1  can't  put  it  all  together  again  right,  somehow.  I've  lost 
the  thread.     But  it's  restful  and  nice,  I  think,  to  talk  about  Ivan." 

Seeta  could  have  cried  aloud  in  the  bitterness  of  her  despair  ;  she 
longed  to  fling  herself  down  madly  on  the  grass,  and  roll  and  welter  in 
her  abject  misery,  she  was  so  pierced  through  and  through  with  inex- 
pressible anguish  To  talk  about  Ivan  !  Ivan  Royle  I  And  this  was 
the  woman  who  iiad  once  been  married  to  Harry  Chichele  1 

If  Seata  had  sinned  she  had  her  punlahmont.  This  was  the  very 
bitterest  cup  of  it  all,  Forgotten,  forgotten,  utterly  forgotten  ;  by  his 
own  wife  ;  and  she — she  could  never,  never  forget  him. 

Novels  ?  Just  heaven  I  What  novels  she  could  write  now  I  She 
need  not  fear  for  want  of  insight.  She  had  sounded  the  full  gamut  of 
human  wretch  3dness.  She  knew  every  note  and  tone  of  despair.  She 
could  paint  every  passion  and  emotion  from  within.  She  wanted  no 
models  ;  she  was  her  own  best  and  most  awful  model.  She  wrote  with 
the  divine  inspiration  of  those  whose  own  hearts  have  been  deeply 
lacerated.  And  she  cared  not  one  farthing  what  praise  or  gain  or  blame 
it  brought  her.  She  was  dead,  dead,  dead  to  the  world.  She  lived  now 
only  for  Harry  Chichele's  widow. 

And  Harry  Chichele's  widow,  walking  still  unconscious  in  the  garden 
by  her  side,  broke  silence  once  more  with  a  pensive  sigh,  **  Where's 
Ivan  Royle  now,  Seeta  1 " 

Seeta  started.  ' '  I  don't  exactly  know,"  she  answered  almost  harshly. 
*'  Somewhere  away  in  America,  I  believe.  He  doesn't  often  write  to 
me.     But  Mohammad  Ali  knows  all  about  him." 

Olwen  burst  into  tears  at  the  tone.  '*  Oh,  don't  speak  cross  to  me," 
she  cried  in  a  piteous  voice.  '*  If  you  speak  cross  to  me  it'll  break  my 
heart.  I  didn't  know  I  was  asking  anything  wrong.  I  didn't  know  I 
oughtn't  to  speak  of  him.     Why,  Ivan  Royle's  your  own  cousin." 

It  was  a  burst  of  discovery,  and  Seeta,  half  frightened,  recognized  it 
as  such.  The  precedent  alarmed  her.  She  feared  how  far  Olwen's 
memory  might  yet  piece  together  the  faint  recollections  of  other  days. 
And  Seeta  dreaded  that  almost  as  much  as  she  hated  her  forgetfulness. 
But  there  was  no  danger.  The  nearer  Olwen  approached  anywhere  to 
Harry,  the  more  blurred  and  indefinite  did  her  memories  become. 
What  lay  around  that  central  point  was  a  vague  haze.  A  vast  region 
of  the  brain  seemed  to  be  utterly  disorganized,  and  all  that  related  to 
her  life  with  Harry  had  faded  away  accordingly  into  total  chaos. 

They  paced  u[)  and  down  once  or  twice  in  silence.  Then  Olwen 
spoke  again,  with  still  more  clear  decision.  *'  America's  a  very  long  way 
off,"  she  said,  "  isn  t  it  ?  I  remember  it  on  the  map.  I'm  sorry  Ivan's  so 
far  away.  I  want  very  much  to  see  him  again.  Once,  Seeta,  he  wai 
ever  so  kind  to  me." 

Through  the  dim  wreck  and  phantasm  of  the  past,  Ivan  Royle's  figure 
now  rose  clear  and  distinct  as  that  of  one  whom  she  could  once  have 
loved.  With  childish  innocence,  she  loved  him  now.  Not  like  ft 
weiiMa,  but  Ukf  »  Uttlo  girl,    §b9  murmured  9Vfr  tnd  OTor  agMn 


IBB  DETIL'I  VOL  90S 

through  the  day,  '*  I  must  look  at  America  again  on  th(«i  map.     I'm 
orry  Ivan's  away  over  in  America. 

A  week  later,  Mohammad  AH  came  down  for  his  spring  holiday. 
Olwen  was  pleased  and  delighted  to  see  him  ;  proud,  like  a  child,  to 
show  him  how  much  she  had  learned  and  remembered  meanwhile  under 
Saeta's  guidance.  She  could  play  now  as  well  as  ever,  she  showed  him, 
on  the  piano  ;  and  she  recollected  her  French  and  her  history,  and  no 
end  of  things,  which  had  come  back  to  her,  one  by  one,  with  increasing 
distinctness.  She  talked  to  Ali  as  a  girl  of  ten  or  twelve  talks  to  her 
big  brother  ;  and  Ali  was  grateful  in  heart  for  her  frankness  and  her 
evident  liking.  A  black  man  has  no  right  to  expect  much.  If  he  gets 
gratitude,  he  may  be  amply  satisfied. 

When  Seeta  told  him  how  Olwen  had  been  talking  of  late  about  Ivan, 
Mohammad  All's  eyes  brightened,  and  he  smiled  a  smile  that  gave  Seeta, 
loyal  as  ever  to  Harry's  memory,  a  cold  shudder  even  to  look  at.  "  I'm 
glad,"  he  said.  **  That's  our  one  chance.  Miss  Mayne,  I've  never 
told  you  yet — I  had  my  reason  for  not  telling  you — but  almost  the  last 
words  Harry  said  to  me  on  that  terrible  day  were,  *  Ali,  Olwen  must 
marry  Ivan.' " 

Seeta  looked  up  at  him  full  of  surprise.  The  words  choked  her. 
**  Did  Harry  say  that  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  throbbing  heart.  It  was 
terrible,  terrible — but  Harry  had  said  it. 

**  He  said  that,"  Ali  answered  softly.  And  Ali  was  a  man  who  spoke 
the  truth.  *'■  He  said  he  knew  Ivan  loved  her,  and  he  knew  Mrs. 
Chichele  could  love  Ivan.  We  two  know  it,  too.  It's  the  one  thing 
on  earth  now  possible  to  save  her." 

Seota  clutched  hard  at  the  back  of  a  chair.  *'  If  Harry  said  that," 
she  answered  through  her  teeth  in  a  clear  voice,  but  with  an  evident 
struggle,  **  we  must  carry  out  hi>  last  wishes  to  the  letter.  It  is  hor- 
rible to  me  even  to  think  of  it — I  don't  deny  it — having  known  him  to 
decline  on  a  narrower  range  of  feeling  and  a  shallower  heart  than  hit : 
but  if  Harry  desired  it,  it  must  be  done  at  all  hazards.  " 

*•  If  you  knew  all "  Mohammad  Ali  cried,  and  then  hastily  check- 
ed himself.  j 

*'  If  I  knew  all,"  Seeta  answered,  shuddering.  *'  Yes,  yes,  no  doubt, 
if  I  knew  all,  I  should  see  differently.  But,  thank  God,  I  do  not  know 
all.  I  know  only  that  you  and  Olwen  know  of  something  I  do  not 
know  ;  and  if  it  would  make  me  think  less  of  Harry  I  don't  want  aver 
to  know  it,  either.     I,  too,  know  something  I  have  never  told  you.     I 

E refer  to  nurse  my  most  sacred  sorrow  in  my  own  mute  way.  It's  all 
have  left  me.     For  mercy's  sake  don't  take  it  away  from  me  1  " 

'*  You  do  well,"  Mohammad  Ali  replied,  with  tender  respectfulneis. 
**  I  reverence  your  feelings  too  much  to  dream  of  hurting  them.  Let 
OS  say  no  more  of  that.  But  what  can  we  do  now  in  this  matter  of 
Ivan's  t" 

Seeta's  eyes  returned  to  the  earth  with  a  start  from  e  abysses  of 
Infinity.  **  He  must  come  to  England,"  she  said,  quietly.  *'  He  must 
KMne  at  once,  and  you  must  go  and  fetch  him." 

Sht  spoke  with  the  certainty  of  absolute  conviction.    His  will 


THIE   DBTfii'S   DII. 

law  for  her  to  all  the  world.  Mohammad  Ali  relBected  a  moment.  "  I 
must  go,"  he  said.  *'  Yes,  you  are  righfe.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
explain  all  this  by  letter.     Especially  that.     I  must  go  and  fetch  him." 

He  had  shrunk  even  from  writing  to  Ivan  the  whole  truth.  That 
truth  was  too  ghastly  to  confide  to  any  one.  But  he  must  face  it  now. 
He  must  tell  it  all ;  he  nust  bring  Ivan  home  to  help  them  with 
01  wen. 

As  for  Seeta,  she  never  faltered  for  a  moment  now.  Harry  had 
■aid  it,  and  it  must  be  done.  Harry's  word  was  absolute  law.  She 
would  ask  Lizbeth  who  had  been  in  the  room  that  last  night,  and 
Lizbeth  would  tell  her.  If  Lizbeth  confirmed  what  Ali  had  said,  Ali 
must  go  through  fire  and  water  to  bring  back  Ivan. 

For  Lizbeth,  too,  had  remained  at  Polperran  the  winter  through. 
Like  a  dog  in  everything,  she  must  have  a  master  or  mistress.  It  was 
a  want  of  her  nature.  Now  that  Harry  was  gone,  she  felt  she  must 
cleave  to  Seeta  and  Olwen ,  but  above  all  to  Seeta.  He  had  loved  the 
tall  'un,  she  said  to  herself,  and  she  must  do  now  as  the  tall  'un  wished 
her.  Obedience  to  Seeta,  affection  to  Seeta.  was  part  of  her  posthum- 
ous devotion  to  Harry.  It  was  Lizbeth's  instinctive  religion  to  fawn 
upon  somebody  ;  and  as  Harry  had  seemed  to  inherit  from  her  mother, 
BO  Seeta  seemed  to  her  to  inherit  from  Harry. 

When  Seeta  asked  her  about  that  last  interview,  Lizbeth  rose,  dra- 
matic as  ever,  from  the  chair  where  she  sat,  and  with  Harry  Chichele's 
very  voice  and  accent,  reduced  to  her  own  grammar  and  vocabulary, 
she  gave  an  account  of  the  whole  incident,  in  her  strange  tragic  way, 
**  'E  up  an'  'e  says,  '  Ali,'  says  'e,  looking  at  'im  like  this,  right  through 
and  through,  *  as  soon  as  I'm  gone,'  says  'e,  '  an'  I'm  goin'  soon,  Ali, 
Olwen  must  marry  Ivan  Royle.  That's  the  only  thing  as  can  ever  put 
me  out  of  her  memory.  *E's  better  fiitted  for  *er,*  says  *e  *than  ever  I 
was.  She  could  love  'im,  an'  'e  loves  'er.  Let  'er  'ave  'im,'  says  'e, 
*  let  'er  'ave  'im  ;  let  'er  'ave  'ira. '  " 

Seeta  bowed  her  head  in  acquiescence  and  wept  silently.  It  was 
desecration,  but  it  was  Harry's  wish.  That  Ivan  Royle  should  aspirt 
to  wed  Harry  Chichele's  widow  grated  on  every  faith  and  hope  of  hei 
being.  That  Harry  Chichele's  widow  should  have  a  thought  left  for 
Ivan  Royle  shocked  and  surprised  her.  But  Harry  desired  it,  and 
Harry  must  be  obeyed.  Mohammad  Ali  must  go  to  America  to  bring 
baoklvao. 


ffSK  dstil's  du.  Mi 


CHAPTER  XXXVTIL 

So  it  was  finally  decided  that  Mohammad  All  should  go  to  Amerioa, 
to  bring  back  Ivan  Koyle,  no  unwilling  yictim,  for  Olwen'i  lake,  to  hia 
native  country. 

Where  exactly  Ivan  might  be,  Mohammad  Ali  hardly  realized.  Ameri- 
can geography  b  a  blank  to  most  of  ua.  He  had  only  a  vague  idea  in  some 
lost  corner  of  his  brain  that  Ivan's  general  direction  was  towards  the 
setting  sun,  and  that  he  might  be  confidently  looked  for  as  an  artist  at 
large  among  the  furthest  recesses  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  But  the 
Rocky  Mountains  form  a  somewhat  wide  address.  Ivan,  to  be  sure, 
had  written  to  his  Indian  friend  from  time,  to  time,  by  fits  and  starts  ; 
but  of  late  months  letters  outward  had  steadily  miscarried.  They  had 
been  sent  to  Ivan's  last  known  halting-place  at  frontier  towns  on  the 
western  limit  of  civilization,  which  they  generally  reached  after  Ivan 
had  left  again,  with  bag  and  baggage,  for  parts  unknown  high  up  in  the 
Sierras ;  and  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  even  so  many  months  after 
Harry  Chichele's  death  Ivan  Royle  remained  in  utter  ignorance  of  the 
fact  that  Olwen  was  now  a  widow.  Had  he  known  all,  he  would  have 
harried  home  to  England  long  since  of  his  own  accord.  He  would 
have  come  at  once  to  watch  over  Olwen  in  her  solitude  and  terror. 
But  Ivan,  disgusted  with  cowboys  and  miners,  had  been  sketching  for 
months  alone  among  the  loneliest  parts  of  the  western  mountains  with 
A  small  party  of  Indian  guides  ;  only  going  down  to  the  nearest  settle- 
ment at  rare  intervals  to  post  his  packet  of  drawings  to  the  Porte- 
Crayon,  and  returning  as  quickly  as  possible  to  the  wholesome  wilds  from 
the  polluted  neighborhood  of  faro  banks  and  the  drinking  saloons. 
His  last  known  address  had  been  Petroleum  Gulch  ,  and  to  Petroleum 
Gulch,  wherever  that  might  bo,  Mohammed  Ali  hoped  in  time  west- 
ward to  wend  his  solitary  way. 

It  took  him  only  some  twenty-four  hours  to  make  his  mind  up  ;  and 
when  he  told  Olwen  that  he  was  going  to  America  in  search  of  Ivan, 
Olwen  opened  her  childish  black  eyes  in  pleased  surprise,  and  answered, 
**  Thank  you,"  as  frankly  and  as  naively  as  a  child  might  have  answered 
it. 

Next  day  Mohammad  Ali  took  his  departure  from  Polperran,  <n 
rotUt  for  Liverpool.  As  he  was  about  to  start,  Olwen  stood  tearful 
and  half-frightened  at  the  gate.  Shv  clasped  his  hand  in  hers  with  a 
sad  smile.  **Dr.  Ali,"  she  said,  "  you're  going  a  very,  very  long  way. 
Perhaps  you'll  never  come  back  to  me  again.  Don't  think  me  ungrate- 
ful to  you  t  Don't  think  me  unappreciative.  I'm  grateful,  grateful, 
oh,  so  very  grateful.''  She  drew  a  ring  from  her  right  hand,  and 
passed  it  over  to  him.  '*  I  want  you  to  take  this  with  you,  please,*' 
•he  laid.     If  you  ever  oome  homoagain,  you  can  giv«  it  baok  to 


106  THE  DETIL'b  DIB. 

If  you  don't  you  can  keep  it  always.     I  don't  know  why,  bub  I  want 
you  to  take  it." 

Ali  looked  hard  at  the  shining  bauble  ;  then,  yielding  for  one  moment 
to  a  sudden  impulse — even  the  best  of  black  men  is  a  man  at  times — he 
raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  wild  delight  and  kissed  it  tenderly.  Olwen 
shrank  back  half  alarmed  at  the  sight.  Her  shrinking  brought  Ali 
back  to  himself.  He  dropped  his  hand  with  a  start  of  surprise.  He 
had  let  himself  for  once  be  carried  away  by  his  feelings.  He  gazed  at 
it  close.  He  knew  the  ring  well.  The  stone  was  a  diamond.  It  was 
a  ring  her  father  had  g^ven  her  when  she  was  first  married  to  Harry 
Ohichele. 

So  Mohammad  Ali  went  to  America. 

Immediately  on  his  arrival  at  New  York  he  took  a  cab — a  hack,  the 
natives  call  it  in  their  own  language — and  ordered  the  Irish  American 
driver  to  take  him  up  to  the  Union  Square  Hotel. 

"The  Union  Square  Hotel,  is  it?  All  right,  mister;  tumble  in, 
thin,  will  ye?"  the  Irish  American  driver  answered,  with  offhand 
ease. 

Mohammad  Ali  was  prepared  beforehand  for  a  certain  amount  of 
republican  familiarity,  but  so  much  freedom  and  simplicity  of  speech 
fairly  took  his  oriental  breath  away. 

The  Union  Square  is  one  of  the  largest  and  most  fashionable  up-town 
hotelsjsituated  near  the  confluence  of  Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue.  The 
cab  drew  up  at  the  door,  and  Mohammad  Ali,  going  inside,  demanded  of 
the  gorgeous  and  affable  clerk  at  the  office  within  whether  he  could  be 
accommodated  with  a  room  there. 

To  his  immense  surprise,  the  gorgeous  and  affable  official,  though 
obsequiously  smiling  to  the  last  applicant,  waited  for  several  minutes 
with  marked  rudeness  before  he  turned  round  in  the  most  careless 
fashion  to  inquire  what  Mohammad  Ali  wanted.  *'  Well,  mister,"  he 
said,  in  a  nonchalant  voice,  "  what  can  I  do  for  you  now,  anyhow  ?  " 

Mohammad  Ali  made  a  mental  note  that  •*  Mister,"  seemed  to  be  the 
recognized  American  equivalent  for  our  English  *' Sir,"  and  that  he 
must,  no  doubt,  be  prepared  in  future  to  accept  it  in  full  of  all  demands 
accordingly. 

*'  I  want  a  room,"  he  said  with  chilly  politeness.  **  I  informed  you 
as  much  some  two  minutes  ago." 

The  gorgeous  clerk,  ptaring  hard,  after  a  moment's  consideration, 
handed  Ali  a  brass  labelled  key,  numbered  740  in  big  figures,  without 
a  word  of  comment  or  apology. 

'*  What  floor  ?  "  Ali  enquired  with  a  courteous  inclination. 

*•  What  floor  ?    Why,  sixth,  mister." 

*'  Sixth  I    Can't  you  give  me  a  room  lower  down  ? 

*'  Lower  down  ?  Why,  that's  a  good  'un  1  You  want  a  room  lower 
down,  do  you  ?  Well,  now  that's  smart,  that  is.  No,  I  can't  give  you 
a  room  lower  down,  anyhow.  You  go  ahead  mister,  and  take  my 
advice— just  keep  what  you're  given." 

Ali,  too  much  taken  aback  by  this  extraordinary  reception  to  remons- 
Iratt  further,  turned  round  to  the  negru  porter,  who  stood  grinning  and 


THK  dsyil's  d».  207 

k.olding  his  hand-bag  in  his  duaky  hand,  ready  to  show  him  the  way  to 
the  elevator. 

*'  Di8  way,  raistah,"  tho  negro  said.  *'  Your  elevator  round  de  comah, 
heah."  And  he  grinned  broader  and  merrier  than  ever,  as  he  showed 
Ali  the  way  to  a  poorly-furnished  lift,  down  a  side  corridor. 

Mohammad  Ali  had  heard  so  much  of  the  elegance  and  comfort  of 
American  hotels,  that  he  was  fairly  surprised  at  this  very  inferior  fourth- 
rate  accommodation.  No  London  hotel  would  have  owned  such  a  lift. 
It  was  quite  a  revelatipn  to  him.  However,  he  went  up  to  his  own 
room— a  miserable  attic  at  the  top  of  the  house,  provided  with  very 
dirty  towels — and  shortly  descended  by  the  big  stairs  for  lunch  to  th« 
dining-room. 

At  the  door  of  the  large  and  handsome  dining-room,  a  negro  waitex 
in  evening  dress,  with  very  obtrusive  white  gloves  on  his  burly  hands, 
stood  on  guard,  as  it  were,  upon  the  very  threshold.  As  Mohammad 
Ali  came  up,  he  advanced  smiling.  *'  Beg  pardon,  mistah,"  he  said 
with  a  half-burlesque  bow  ;  *'  dis  ain't  your  dining-room.  Tou  muit 
go  to  de  little  dining-room  on  do  groun   floah." 

Mohammad  Ali  gazed  at  him  astonished.  *'  This  not  my  dinina 
room,"  he  repeated  blankly.  '*  The  little  dining-room  on  the  ground 
floor  1     Why,  what  do  you  mean,  my  friend  ? " 

'*  Yes,  mistah,"  the  negro  repeated  with  dignity.  "You  doan'l 
dine  heah.  Gullurd  pussons  is  not  permitted  in  dis  hotel  at  de  fust 
table." 

Mohammad  Ali  stood  back,  thunderstruck.  For  a  moment  he  hardly 
took  in  what  the  man  meant.  "  Fellow,"  he  said  at  last,  in  an  angnr 
tone,  "  send  for  the  manager.  This  matter  must  be  cleared  up.  There*! 
some  mistake  somewhere.  I'll  go  inside  and  take  a  seat.  Will  yon 
ask  the  manager  to  come  up  and  speak  to  me  ?  " 

The  negro  disappeared,  and  in  a  few  minutes  returned  again,  all 
grins,  bringing  up  the  manager  in  tow  behind  him. 

The  manager's  manner  was  only  a  trifle  less  insolent  in  its  vra,y  than 
the  negro's.  He  listened  with  a  face  of  amused  superiority  to  Mohani' 
mad  Ali's  indignant  expostulation  ;  and  then  he  observed  in  a  quietly 
contemptuous  tone,  "This  is  a  free  country,  I  guess,  my  friend,  and 
every  man  has  a  right  to  run  his  own  hotel  the  way  he  chooses,  any- 
how. Our  rule  at  this  house  is  that  coloured  persons  ain't  admitted  to 
the  first  table.  You  mayn't  approve  of  it,  but  still  it's  our  rule.  If 
you  don't  like  it,  I  reckon  you'll  have  the  usual  alternative  of  lumping 
it.  In  Europe,  folks  mayn't  object  to  niggers,  but  in  this  country,  u 
I  was  to  allow  a  gentleman  of  colour  to  sit  do^n  at  my  first  table,  why, 
I  presume  1  might  put  the  shutters  up  to-morrow  morning,  and  retire 
up  town  on  a  modest  competence.  The  business  wouldn't  sell  for  a 
pint  of  peanuts." 

Mohammad  Ali  dropped  his  hand  by  his  side  in  impotent  despair. 
'•I'll  take  my  boxes,     he  said,  "and  go  elsewhere.** 

*'  You  can  take  your  baggage  now,  right  away,  if  you  feel  like  taking 
it,"  the  manager  replied,  sticking  his  hands  carelessly  in  his  trousen 
pockets.     "  It's  right  there,  in  the  front  pivssagOt    3ut  yoa'U  hftTf  Uli 


208  THB   DBTIL'S   DIl. 

Mme  *roublo  at  the  next  hotel  you  go  to,  for  there's  no  more  than  one 
rule  throughout  all  New  York  City,  and  you'll  only  ruffle  your  temper 
more,  which  seems  to  be  none  of  the  best  at  any  time,  if  you  try  over 
again.  I've  seen  this  same  kind  of  trouble  going  on  afore,  with  Euro- 
pean-bred niggers.  They  ain't  accustomed  beforehand  to  the  American 
point  of  view,  and  jest  at  first,  of  course,  they  don't  exactly  like  it. 
They  kind  of  kick  at  it.  But  it  ain't  no  use  ;  they've  got  to  get  used 
to  it,  like  pigs  to  Chicago  ;  and  if  you  mean  to  stop  in  the  States, 
you'll  find  the  rule  for  niggers  is  to  take  what  you're  given  or  go  with- 
out. It's  the  same  at  every  hotel  I  ever  heard  of,  from  Maine  to 
California.     No  niggers  at  the  first  table." 

"That's  so,"  the  negro  waiter  ejaculated  behind  in  hearty  confirma- 
tion. He  seemed  to  take  a  malicious  pleasure  in.  the  degradation  of 
one  of  his  own  colour. 

Mohammad  Ali  bit  his  lip.  After  all,  it  was  only  a  personal  slight, 
and  for  her  sake  he  would  try  to  put  up  with  it.  But  his  heart  sank 
within  him  at  the  idea  of  the  indignity  to  which  he,  an  Arab  of  the 
Arabs,  was  being  subjected  by  these  underbred  upstarts.  Had  it  not 
been  for  Olwen  he  would  have  turned  at  once  and  gone  back  by  the 
very  next  steamer  to  Liverpool.  But  for  Olwen's  sake  he  must  brazen 
it  out ;  he'must  go  through  with  it  now,  for  Olwen,  for  Olwen. 

Yet  a  painful  thought  pressed  itself  upon  him.  If  this  was  the 
treatment  he  received  in  New  York  itself,  the  enlightened  and  civilized 
metropolis  of  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  what  sort  of  reception  might  he 
expect  to  obtain  from  the  wild  westerners  among  whom  Ivan  Royle 
had  pitched  his  tent  on  the  rough  and  rugged  slopes  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains  ?  Mohammad  Ali  shrank  from  realizing  it.  He  knew  but 
one  thing  ;  he  would  get  away  from  this  hateful  town  by  the  earliest 
train  to-morrow  morning,  and  would  travel  straight  ahead,  day  and 
night,  by  car  and  by  stage-coach,  through  prairie  and  mountain,  till 
he  reached  Petroleum  Gulch  itself,  where  Ivan  Royle  had  been  last 
heard  of.  In  what  part  of  the  world  that  oddly-named  Petroleum 
Gulch  might  be,  he  neither  knew  nor  cared  particularly  ;  but  he 
would  make  his  way  there  by  the  quickest  route,  and  would  bring  back 
Ivan  at  once  to  England.  He  could  never  rest  till  he  had  shaken  the 
dust  of  that  inhospitable  republic  for  ever  from  his  feet,  and  had 
planted  his  sole,  a  free  man  once  more  on  the  generous  soil  of  free 
Brita'n. 

In  any  country  of  the  old  world,  Mohammad  Ali,  well  born,  well 
bred,  cultivated,  refined,  a  gentleman  by  blood  and  race  and  education, 
would  have  been  received  as  an  equal  with  open  arms  in  the  society  of 
all  that  was  best  and  highest ;  in  America  alone,  with  all  its  noisy 
boasts,  his  black  skin  raised  an  insuperable  barrier  between  himself 
and  the  lowest  or  vilest  or  most  ignorant  of  white  men.  He  had  come 
to  the  land  of  the  free  to  find  himself  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  life 
subjected  to  the  vile  surviving  prejudices  of  old  world  slavery  ;  he 
longed  to  be  back  in  the  land  which  had  conquered  and  enslaved  him- 
self  and  his  people,  in  order  that  he  might  feel  himself  onoe  more  • 
(r9§m»n>    TJiere  it  ooe  country  in  the  world,  tnd  one  tlone,  wb«r«, 


THK  devil's  dik.  209 

black  or  white,  Christian  or  Mohammadan,  European  or  Asiatic,  a  man's 
a  man  for  all  that ;  and  that  country  is  certainly  not  republican  Am- 
erica. Mohammad  Ali,  laying  down  his  head  on  his  sleepless  pillow 
that  first  night,  said  to  himself  ten  thousand  times  over,  **  I  wish  to 
heaven  I  was  back  again  in  free  England."  How  many  a  disillusioned 
republican  pilgrim  from  the  old  world  has  said  the  same  thing  with  .1 
full  heart  before  and  since  him  1  And  yet,  so  far,  he  had  only  touched 
the  outermost  threshold  of  the  great  Republic.  He  had  still  to  learn 
in  th«  wild  weat  the  full  terrors  .and  horrors  of  free  America. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

Itan  Botls  had  not  revisited  Eagle  City  for  many  months.  Eagle 
Oity  was  hardly  to  his  taste.  It  was  too  occidental  in  thought  and 
manners  for  his  English  fancy.  The  episode  of  the  Chinaman  had 
sufficed  to  drive  him  from  the  squalid  neighbourhood  of  the  Sunset 
Lode  trail,  and  to  turn  his  steps  for  a  while  among  the  lonely  mountains, 
where  nothing  more  dangerous  than  Red  Indians  and  grizzly  bears  were 
likely  to  disturb  his  philosophic  and  artistic  quiet.  Chaparral  Bill  and 
his  rowdy  companions  grated  on  Ivan's  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 
He  much  preferred  the  unsophisticated  red  man  of  the  wild  west.  The 
simple  children  of  nature  stabbed  and  shot  and  scalped  and  got  drunk 
without  the  faintest  pretence  that  they  were  the  pioneers  of  Aryan 
culture  in  the  great  west,  or  that  they  were  planting  the  g  "^^s  of  Am- 
erican liberty  on  tue  rolling  confines  of  the  boundless  pra  :  ics.  Ivan 
rather  liked  his  Indian  guides,  in  fact.  They  were  unpretentiously 
wicked.  The  innocent  criminality  of  the  born  savage  does  not  disgust 
one  like  the  degenerate  and  decadent  immorality  of  the  outcast  and 
oflF-scourings  of  European  civilisation  in  its  worst  avatars. 

At  times,  however,  Ivan  found  himself  compelled  by  dire  necessity 
to  come  down  from  his  temporary  encampment  on  the  mountain 
slopes,  where  he  and  his  Indians  subsisted  chiefly  on  the  "product  of 
the  chase,"  as  Chaparral  Bill,  who  had  never  shot  any  game  in  his  life 
except  the  human  subject,  loved  to  designate  it — in  quest  of  supplies 
and  the  sinews  of  war,  to  Petroleum  Gulch  or  Eagle  City.  *'Wal, 
tenderfoot,"  the  proprietor  of  the  National  Pacific  Hotel  remarked  to 
Ivan,  as  he  sat  down  to  the  table,  weary  and  footsore  after  a  long 
tramp,  at  that  convenient  resting-placa  a  day  or  two  later  ;  **  we  ain't 
seen  much  of  you  or  your  money  round  lately  since  the  boys  strung 
up  the  yellow-faced  laundryman  for  cheating  at  poker,  have  we  ?  You 
was  on  the  laundryman's  side,  as  I  recollect  it.  You  don't  see  no 
harm  in  cheating  at  poker,  you  don't.  Them  principles  may  go  do\'rii 
in  the  country  whar  you  come  from,  but  they  don't  suit  the  Mountain 
Slope  Territories.  West  of  the  Mississippi,  we  go  solid  for  the  supre- 
macy  of  ordoTf    The  people  of  the  Mountain  Slope  Territories  are  lo 

(14) 


910  THs  devil's  dis. 

honest,  high- principled,  law  abidin'  community,  who  object  to  tricking 
at  cards,  and  aU  other  forms  of  swindlin'  and  dishonesty.  But  there 
won't  be  no  dishonesty  lyin'  around  loose  in  these  here  diggings  for  the 
next  week  or  two.  Monte  Joe's  in  the  city,  now,  he  is.  He's  death 
on  law  and  order,  Joe  is.  There  ain't  such  a  chap  for  backing  up  tha 
executive  and  enforcin'  moral  principles  in  the  whole  Territory  as 
Colonel  Joseph  Jefferson  Ridley." 

"What,  Joe   Ridley  the  murderer?"  Ivan  asked  quietly. 

*'Some  people  might  call  him  so,"  the  landlord  replied,  with  an 
ironical  air  of  affected  abstraction,"  "when  Joe  wasn't  around  to  ex- 
plain matters  and  strenuously  resist  the  defamation  of  his  character. 
Joe's  down  on  all  defamation  of  character,  he  is.  He  can't  abide  no 
libel  or  slander.  Never  was  such  a  chap  for  promotin'  purity  of  langu- 
age. "  'Pears  to  me,"  he  landlord  observed  reflectively,  as  he  chawed 
up  a  slice  from  a  raw  lemon,  "  that  in  Europe  folks  ain't  got  no  proper 
pride  in  their  position  as  white  men.  Thay  ain't  been  brought  into 
contact  with  inferior  races,  that's  where  it  is.  They  don't  recognize 
that  a  white  man's  got  to  shoot  an  Injun  whenever  the  durned  redskin 
misbehaves  himself,  or  there  wouldn't  be  no  law  and  order  anyway. 
Moral  susasion's  necessary  for  the  inferior  races  ;  niggers  and  Injuns 
must  do  as  they'er  bid,  or  you've  got  to  drop  *em.  Otherwise  there 
ain't  no  maintainin'  the  Caucasian  supremacy.  There's  a  nigger  coma 
to  town,  too,  by  the  way,  since  you  was  here  last.  He  arrived  in  the 
city  this  afternoon  from  down  trail.  The  toniest  nigger  I  see  ;  you  bet. 
Gives  himself  airs  like  a  United  States  senator,  and  holds  up  his  head 
as  if  he  was  president  of  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad,  and  could  boss 
the  whole  California  State  Legislature." 

**  Indeed,"  Ivan  answered,  a  touch  of  pity  mingled  with  the 
contemptuous  irony  of  his  careless  tone.  *'  Poor  devil,  I  pity  him. 
These  are  bad  quarters  for  any  nigger  to  find  himself  in  any  day." 

**  Wal,  the  boys  wiU  have  their  fun  out  of  him,  I  presoom,"  the  land- 
lord observed,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who,  for  argument's  sake,  makes 
a  candid  admission.  **  He  thinks  a  sight  too  much  of  himself  for  a 
nigger,  that's  whar  it  is ;  and  the  boys  are  engaged  in  making  him 
•how  his  teeth  like  a  coyote  in  a  cage  when  you  poke  a  stick  through 
the  bars  at  him.  He's  pretty  considerably  riled,  you  may  take  your 
dying  oath  on  it." 

*'  I  suppose  it  would  be  useless  to  interfere  between  them  and  their 
victim,"  Ivan  murmured  aloud  to  himself,  with  a  sinking  heart,  as  he 
thought  of  the  poor  defenceless  black  man  in  the  hands  of  so  many 
ruffianly  and  merciless  tormentors. 

*' That's  so.  The  boys  ain't  going  to  have  their  sport  spiled,"  the 
landlord  admitted  with  prompt  conviction.  '*  Besides,  they  don't 
mean  to  allow  no  more  niggers  nor  Chinamen  of  any  sort  in  Eagle  City. 
And  this  'ere  nigger's  a  caution  to  snakes.  You  never  heerd  anything 
like  the  way  he  talks  :  thinks  himself  own  brother  to  the  Emperor  of 
Russia  and  first  cousin  to  the  Vanderbilts  of  New  York  City.  He's 
been  inquiring  after  you,  too,  now  I  come  to  tliink  of  it.  Asked  if  a 
ohap  of  the  nam^  9t  Boyle,  a  painter  \f^  trade,  was  fooUng  round 


TBI  DBTIL'8  DIB.  211 

anywhere  in  this  section.  He's  come  straight  on  Prom  Petroleum 
Gulch,  where  I  reckon  they  raised  his  dander  a  bit  already.  Mad,  I 
call  him.  Sez  he's  t)ie  Prophet  Mahomet,  or  something  of  the  sort 
He's  come  here  last  from  Europe,  but  he  sez  he  was  raised  originally 
in  India.  Talked  a  lot  about  the  Prophet  Mahomet — escaped,  most 
likely,  from  a  lunatic  asylum  somewheres." 

A  horrible  li^ht  burst  suddenly  upon  Ivan  Ro^  •  ;  mind.  He  could 
hardly  believe  it.  So  great  a  misfortune  could  scarcely  be  true.  It 
was  Mohammad  Ali  I 

In  the  horror  of  the  moment  the  name  itself  escaped  his  tremblinsr 
lips.  The  landlord  nodded  an  unconcerned  assent.  "  Mohammaa 
Harry,"  he  repeated,  with  a  laugh.  '*Yes,  yes,  that  was  just  what 
the  nigger  called  himself.  A  fine -spoken,  high-falutin',  Broadway- 
dude  of  a  nigger  :  got  up  like  a  masher,  and  talks  like  a  jedge  of  the 
Supreme  Court.  The  boys  are  at  him  now,  makin'  him  roar  like  mad, 
down  at  the  Road  to  Ruin." 

Ivan  Royle's  blood  ran  cold  within  him.  Mohammad  Ali  the  butt 
of  the  boys  at  the  Road  to  Ruin  1  That  tender,  sensitive,  chivalrous 
black  man  abandoned  to  the  jibes  and  jeers,  and  cruel  horse-play  of 
Chapparal  BUI  and  his  coarse-minded  associates  t 

**  How  long  has  this  been  going  on?"  he  gasped  out  in  a  perfect 
agony  of  anticipation.  "  When  did  he  get  there  ?  When  did  you  see 
himf" 

*'  He  came  here  an  hour  ago,"  the  landlord  answered  with  a  mali- 
cious smile,  *'  and  the  boys  are  on  him  at  the  Road  to  Ruin  like  a 
tarrier  on  the  rats,  you  bet.  Monte  Joe's  making  things  tolerable 
lively  for  him." 

Without  another  word,  Ivan  jumped  from  the  table,  leavine  hia 
steak  and  beer  unfinished  as  it  stood,  and  rushed  down  the  long, 
irregular  wooden  street,  till  he  reached  the  door  of  the  Road  to  Ruin. 

As  he  entered  that  miserable  slipshod  wooden  drinking  saloon,  a 
pitiable  sight  indeed  met  his  eyes.  In  the  midst  of  a  loathsome  crowd 
of  rough,  unshaven,  and  unkempt  miners,  Mohammad  Ali,  tall  and 
handsome,  with  the  carriage  of  a  prince  and  the  features  of  a  poet,  in 
dress  and  aspect  every  inch  a  gentleman,  stood  there  at  bay,  in  fierce 
Indian  anger,  confronting  and  defying,  with  clenched  fist  and  close-set 
teeth,  that  wretched  group  of  leering,  jeering,  sneering  vagabonds. 
His  eyes  flashed  with  dangerous  fire,  and  his  curling  hp  flung  back 
upon  the  men  a  proud  contempt  which  their  natures  could  never 
permit  them  even  to  understand.  On  the  contrary,  they  took  his 
fiery  resentment  for  a  capital  joke,  and  loud  cries  of  **  Well  done, 
nigger  1 "  "  Go  it,  nigger  1 "  "Ain't  he  toney,  neither  !  "  *'  Don't  he 
carry  sone  style  about  him,  ruther  ? "  resounded  amidst  coarse  bursts 
of  laughter  from  every  side  of  the  reeking  whiskey-shop.  Ivan  Royle 
dashed  into  their  midst  with  true  British  impetuosity,  and  before  the 
men  had  time  to  recover  from  their  first  astonishment,  he  was  grasping 
Mohammed  Ali  fervently  by  the  hand,  and  clearing  away  the  foremost  > 
idlers  with  his  strong  arms  from  the  throng  in  the  oentNi  that  crowded 
u>d  impeded  him* 


SIS  TBI  BBTIL'e  Dm. 

**  Now  then,  tenderfoot,"  the  nearest  miner  exclaimed  angrily,  at 
Ivan  tossed  him  back  upon  the  group  behhid  with  a  dash  of  his  hand, 
"  them  may  be  manners  where  you  was  raised,  but  they  won't  do  west 
of  the  Mississippi.  The  nigger's  a  friend  of  yDurs,  is  he  ?  I  thought 
you  was  about  there  yourself,  I  did.  I'll  have  to  trouble  you  to  let  go 
of  him  this  rainnit." 

Almost  before  Ivan  could  realize  what  was  happening,  the  whole 
party  had  closed  in  around  them,  and  was  hustling  them  now  in  real 
earnest,  with  many  savage  cries  of  indignation  and  astonishment. 
Took  the  nigger's  part,  did  he  ?  So  much  the  worse  for  him."  *'  Nig- 
gers have  got  to  clear  out  of  Eagle  City?"  *' We  go  in  for  the 
Caucasian  supremacy  1  "  "  The  tenderfoot  must  go  ! "  **  Draw  on  the 
nigger,  Billl "  "No  amalgamation!"  "Who  says  niggers  and 
Chinamen  ?  " 

Ivan  and  Ali  looked  around  them  in  despair.  They  might  have 
fought  and  sold  their  lives  dearly  ;  but  to  do  more  than  that  was  simply 
impossible.  Ali  laid  his  hand  on  Ivan's  shoulder.  "  Royle,"  he  said 
in  a  low  whisper  ;  "  Harry  Chichele's  dead,  and  Mrs.  Chichele  has  been 
seriously  ill.  For  her  sake,  I  came  to  bring  you  home  to  England. 
For  her  sake,  I  hope  you'll  try  to  get  away  peaceably.  Don't  fire  on 
these  curs  ;  it's  better  to  endure  it.  I've  borne  and  put  up  with  a 
good  deal  already.  I  don't  mind  putting  up  with  it  a  little  longer  now 
that  I've  found  you  at  last.  If  only  we  can  once  get  away  down  the 
trail  towards  the  Union  Pacific  it'll  be  all  right.  The  people  below  are 
only  insolent.  Don't  let's  fight.  Let's  make  any  terms  on  earth 
with  them,  and  take  our  lives  in  our  hands  cmly." 

Ivan  Royle  turned  round  to  the  men  appealingly.  **  Look  here,"  he 
said,  holding  them  off  for  a  moment  once  more  with  his  powerful  arm. 
"  We  don't  want  to  fight.  We  want  fair  play,  and  nothing  else.  No 
derringers,  if  you  please,  gentlemen.  Give  us  room,  and  we'll  clear 
out  of  Eagle  City  at  once.  We're  going  to  England.  My  friend,  who 
is  no  nigger,  but  an  Eastern  gentleman,  has  come  in  search  of  me  on 
important  business.  Let  us  go,  and  we'll  never  darken  your  doors 
again.  You  don't  want  us.  Why  should  you  keep  us  ?  We've  done 
you  no  harm,  why  molest  us  ?  " 

The  rowdies  talked  together  for  a  moment,  and  then  Cha parrel  Bill, 
the  spokesman  of  the  set,  answered  with  an  oath,  '*  What  do  you  want 
to  go  an'  assault  us  for,  then  ?  We  was  sittin'  here,  like  a  party  of 
gentlemen  in  their  own  saloon,  havin'  a  bit  of  a  talk  with  the  nigger 
from  Europe — makin'  kind  inquiries  after  his  friends  and  relations,  and 
admirin'  his  style  and  store  clothes — and  in  you  come  like  a  young 
earthquake,  jostling'  and  huatlin'  a  group  of  peaceable  an'  unoffendin* 
citizens,  and'  takiu'  the  nigger's  part,  and  assaultin'  the  police  in  the 
execution  of  their  dooty  ;  and  then,  when  peaceable  citizens  rally  to 
the  side  of  the  law  and  order,  you  call  out  like  a  gal  afore  you're  hurt, 
and  begin  to  talk  about  making  tracks  for  Europe.  Wal,  you  can  go 
whenever  you  like.  We  ain't  got  no  personal  quarrel  with  you.  You've 
alius  behaved,  on  the  whole,  decent  and  regular.  But  not  the  nigger. 
No  nigger  shall  oome  carortin'  around  Eagle  oit^  like  thaX«   And 


TBB  DIYIL's  DIB.  Sid 

•xpectin'  to  paint  the  town  red,  with  his  durned  style,  and  then  go  off 
again  without  payin'  for  it,  whenever  it  pleases  him,  anyway.  Niggers 
has  got  to  pay  for  style  :  and  they  pay  for  it  with  their  hides,  I  guess, 
in  this  community."  He  stepped  aside  and  made  a  little  lane  for  Ivan 
down  the  midst  to  the  door.  "  You  can  go,  if  you  like,"  he  said,  once 
more,  in  a  tone  of  authority  to  the  Englishman,  *'  but  not  the  nigger. 
Nigger,  say,  you  stand  right  thar,  and  mind  your  own  business,  till 
we're  ready  to  larrup  you." 

Ivan  Royle's  blood  boiled  over.  *'  You  cur,"  he  cried,  pushing  back 
Chaparral  Bill  with  his  clenched  hand,  angrily.  '*  Touch  him,  if  you 
iare  !  If  you  do,  you  shall  feel  the  weight  of  an  English  fist  on  that 
ugly  nose  of  yours. " 

*'  Go,"  Mohammad  Ali  exclaimed,  at  his  ear  in  haste.  **  Never  mind 
me.  For  her  sake,  go.  I  can  sell  my  life  easily  for  two  of  theirs. 
Start  down  the  trail  as  hard  as  you  can  go  for  the  Union  Pacific  1  I 
shall  have  lived  my  days  if  only  I  can  send  you  home  safe  to  her." 

**  Never  1 "  Ivan  answered  aloud.  "  I  will  never  leave  you.  Ali, 
Ali,  I'd  die  a  thousand  times  over  sooner  than  leave  such  a  man  as  you 
are  to  these  ruffian's  mercy.  I  know  them  too  well.  They're  fiends 
incarnate.  If  we  must  die,  we'll  die  together.  Stand  clear  there,  you 
blackguards.  Don't  lay  a  hand  on  us.  I  shall  take  this  gentleman 
up  with  me  to  my  own  hotel." 

At  the  word  genHeman,  applied  to  the  black  man,  the  circle  of  out- 
casts gave  a  loud  shout  of  unfeigned  merriment.  As  it  died  away  Cha- 
parral Bill  stepped  forward  once  more  and  clapped  his  hands  resolutely 
on  Ivan's  shoulder.  "  Very  well,  boys,"  he  said,  *'  the  tenderfoot  don't 
accept  our  terms.  He  won't  give  up  his  durned  nigger.  Let  him  take 
his  trial,  then.  He's  committed  an  assault  on  half  a  dozen  of  us.  In 
absence  of  any  duly  constitooted  authority,  I  arrest  him  an*  the  nigger 
on  a  charge  of  riot,  Close  in  there,  all  of  you  bt)ys,  right  an'  loft. 
Hold  'em  tight,  boys,  an'  march  'em  off  straight  to  the  Dow  Drop." 

The  boys  carried  out  their  instructions  to  the  letter. 

At  the  Dew  Drop,  they  locked  thtnn  up  all  night  in  an  empty  room, 
while  they  themselves  deliberated  as  to  what  further  steps  should  be 
taken  to  punish  these  two  intrusive  foreigners  for  the  crime  of  rioting. 

Mohammad  Ali  spent  most  of  the  night  in  talking  to  Ivan.  There 
was  much  to  tell  and  much  to  explain.  But  somehow,  in  that  wild 
far-western  world,  even  Harry  Chichel  )'s  crime  seemed  less  ghastly 
than  before.  It  had  at  least  the  outer  glozo  of  culture  and  European 
refinement  to  mask  and  conceal  its  inmost  hideousness.  Compared  to 
such  men  as  Chaparral  Bill,  Harry  Chichele  himself  grew  for  tlie  mom- 
ent into  a  tender-hearted,  educated,  ill-advised  English  Kentlouvin.  It 
was  easier  to  deal  with  tho  deadliest  germs  than  the  brutal  violence  of 
that  nest  of  robbers. 


fl4  THB  DBYIL'S  DI& 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Next  morning,  about  ten  o'clock,  Chaparral  Bill,  accompanied  by  a 
large  and  boisterous  contingent  of  the  boys,  came  around  to  interview 
them.  The  man  assumed  a  queer  consequential  air  of  judicial  power 
in  the  absence  of  any  constituted  authority.  He  acted  as  though  he 
were  mouthpiece  of  law  and  order,  while  he  appeared  to  consider  that 
the  two  prisoners  had  been  caught  in  flagrant  rebellion  against  the 
Government  and  people  of  the  United  States,  and  their  repretentatives 
in  Eagle  City. 

'*Wal,  tenderfoot,"  he  said,  regarding  Ivan  with  curious  interest,  as 
though  he  were  a  specimen  of  some  rare  wild  animal,  "  the  boys  have 
been  thinking  this  matter  over,  and  they've  deputed  me  to  give  the 
result  of  their  deliberations. " 

'*  I'm  obliged  to  them  for  their  polite  attention,"  Ivan  replied  with 
stolid  self -suppression,  gazing  round  in  unconcealed  aversion  and  dis- 
gust upon  the  rough  crowd  of  dirty  and  ill-shaven  miners. 

"The  boys  consider,"  Chaparral  Bill  went  on  with  severe  gravity, 
"  that  you  both  put  on  a  durned  sight  too  much  style.  The  boys  don'fc 
approve  of  style.  They  don't  approve  of  it,  even  in  a  white  man  ;  but 
th«>y  arn't  going  to  stand  it,  they  say  outright,  in  a  woolly-headed 
nigger." 

"  The  boys  are  of  opinion,  too,"  Chaparral  Bill  continued,  in  the 
voice  and  manner  of  an  official  speaker,  '*  that  you  can't  be  much  of  a 
white  man  yourself,  or  you  wouldn't  be  so  uncommon  thick  with  nig- 
gers, and  Injuns,  and  yellow-faced  Chinamen.  You  ain't  got  no  proper 
pride  of  race,  you  haven't,  that's  whar  it  is.  You  don't  support  the 
Caucasian  supremacy.  The  boys  are  all  for  equal  rights,  they  are  ;  but 
the're  death  on  supporting  the  Caucasian  supremacy." 

"Indeed,"  Ivan  answered  with  ironical  emphasis. 

"  Well,"  Chaparral  Bill  began  afresh,  turning  round  to  Ivan, 
•*  under  these  painful  circumstances,  the  boys  are  of  opinion,  tender- 
foot, that  Eagle  City  ain't  the  proper  environment  adapted  for  yourself, 
and  your  friend  the  nigger.  You're  a  deal  too  ready  with  your  big 
fists,  and  you  tend  to  provoke  a  breach  of  the  peace  with  the  freedom 
of  your  comments  on  men  and  institootions.  At  first  sight,  some  of  the 
boys  was  for  severe  measures.  They  proposed  to  utilize  you  for  start- 
ing our  projected  new  cemetery  down  the  Coyote  Canyon.  But  they've 
decided,  instead,  that  a  small  party  of  us  should  lead  you  down  the 
Coyote  Canyon  as  far  as  the  sage-brush,  and,  as  one  might  put  it  judi* 
ciallj,  escort  you  to  the  frontier,  requesting  you  to  vacate  the  city 
limita." 

To  Mohammad  Ali,  who  did  not  know  the  very  meaning  of  the  word 
M^e-bnuh,  that  awful  leatenoe,  prunouoced  with  all  the  oool  blood- 


TBI  DBYIL'S  pil.  Slf 

thirsty  humour  of  the  western  American,  conveyed  but  little  idea  of 
its  real  and  terrible  import.  He  imagined  merely  that  **  the  boys,"  in 
the  exercise  of  an  unexpected  clemency,  intended  to  see  them  safely 
out  of  Eagle  City,  and  to  take  care  that  the^  did  not  return  to  it.  But 
to  Ivan,  who  knew  the  sage-brush  well,  the  decree  of  that  informal 
though  none  the  less  potent  and  final  tribunal  came  home  at  once  in  all 
Its  ghastly  and  fatal  reality.  The  tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are 
very  cruel.  He  was  only  too  well  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  the 
sage-brush,  that  awful  desert  of  waterless  alkaline  sand  and  clay  that 
intervenes  between  the  mountain  region  and  the  grass-clad  prairie.  He 
knew  that  the  desert  was  trackless  and  impassable  ;  that  return  up  the 
C?  iiyon  was  blocked  by  their  present  captors  and  judges  ;  that  no  other 
way  back  to  the  Pacific  slope  was  anywhere  practicable.  He  recognized, 
in  short,  that  Chaparral  Bill's  lightly-spoken  sentence  was  nothing 
other  than  a  sentence  of  death  by  slow  starvation.  Starvation  long  and 
hideous  and  unspeakable  in  a  thirsty  land,  of  blinding  dust,  and  deadly 
irritating  saline  exhalations.  He  held  his  breath,  and  looked  hard  at 
Ali.  It  was  too  horrible  to  believe.  And  yet  he  knew  those  rough 
and  lawless  men  far  too  well  not  to  feel  sure  that  they  really  intended 
this  unearthly  devilry.  The  dark  places  of  the  earth  are  full  of 
cruelty. 

•'  Before  we  get  the  escort  under  way,  though,"  Chaparral  Bill  con- 
tinued, turning  with  a  nasty  smile  to  Mohammad  Ali,  "  there's  one 
little  point  I'd  like  to  settle  with  you  right  here,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Nieger.  I  observe  you've  got  a  very  nice  ring  on  your  derned  dark 
hand  there  ;  and  if  I  can  trust  myself  for  anything  of  a  judge — which  I 
ought  to  be  by  this  time — I  should  say  the  stone  in  it's  a  genuine  dia- 
mond. Now,  I  never  took  anything  off  a  fellow  critter's  body  afore — 
that  is  to  say,  not  as  long  as  he  was  alive,  anyhow  ;  but  I  don't  hold 
with  a  nigger  wearing  diamonds.  It's  too  much  style,  that's  what  I 
call  it.  In  the  interests  of  peace  and  of  the  Caucasian  supremacy,  I'll 
trouble  you.  Sambo,  to  take  that  ring  off  and  hand  it  over." 

Mohammad  All's  eyes  were  like  an  angry  wild  beast's  to  look  at.  It 
was  her  ring,  and  he  would  sooner  ten  thousand  times  have  died  whore 
he  stood  than  have  yielded  it  up  to  that  miserable  miscreant.  *'  You 
infernal  scoundrel,"  he  cried,  leaping  wildly  forward,  and  hissing  out 
the  words  fiercely  from  between  his  clenched  teeth,  '*  if  you  take  th.it 
ring,  you'll  have  to  take  it  off  my  dead  body.  And  if  you  dare  to 
advance  a  single  step  nearer  me,  by  heaven,  as  sure  as  you're  standing 
there,  you  son  of  a  dog,  I'll  blow  your  confounded  worthless  brains  out. 
As  he  spoke,  he  drew  for  the  first  time  his  revolver  from  his  breast 
pocket,  and  pointed  it  straight  at  the  wretched  bully's  right  temple. 

Chaparral  Bill  sprang  back  in  surprise.  Evidently  this  was  a  very 
different  species  of  nigger  from  the  kind  of  nigger  to  whom  he  was 
accustomed  in  St.  Louis  or  San  Francisco.  So  strange  an  apparition 
took  his  breath  away  for  a  moment,  and  left  him  undecided  what  on 
•arth  to  think  of  it. 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,  you  blackguard,"  Mohammad  Ali  went  on  mor« 
ooollyi  ouv«riug  Chaparral  Bill  lUl  the  while  with  the  muzslv  <4  hi§ 


216  TBI  dstil'i  Dim 

revolrer.  *'My  friend  Mr.  Royle  and  I  are  British  Bubjects.  Toi 
can  shoot  us  both  here  now,  if  you  like,  though  I  give  you  fair  warning 
we'll  sell  our  lives  dearly  if  you  try  it  on,  and  you  shall  be  the  very 
first  we  fire  at.  But  if  you  shoot  us  you'll  have  to  answer  for  it. 
We're  not  Americans,  thank  God  ;  we're  British  subjects.  There's  law 
for  British  subjects,  all  the  world  over,  even  here  in  your  dirty  little 
backwoods  encampment.  You  may  get  off  scot  free,  if  you  kill  us,  for 
this  moment ;  but  as  soon  as  we're  missed  at  home,  our  Government 
will  make  enquiries  of  your  Government  at  Washington  ;  and  your 
Government  will  hunt  you  down,  man  by  man,  through  fire  and  water; 
and  in  the  end,  if  heaven  and  earth  have  to  be  moved  for  it  first,  not 
a  soul  that  has  borne  a  hand  in  this  cowardly  crime  but  will  be  strung 
up  for  it,  and  hanged  by  the  neck  on  the  gallows  till  dead,  as  you  every 
one  of  you  richly  deserve  to  be.  Hands  off,  and  mind  my  words  ;  the 
very  first  man  that  fires  a  shot  will  have  to  answer  for  it  to  the  United 
States'  courts  and  to  the  British  Government." 

"  That's  so,"  a  quiet  voice  in  the  background  assented  gravely. 

Every  eye  turned  instinctively  to  the  last  speaker.  It  was  Monte  Joe. 
That  accomplished  gambler,  robber,  and  murderer,  superior  t  >  the  rest 
in  cunning  and  crime,  was  superior  to  them,  too,  in  information  and 
intelligence. 

"  You  agree  with  the  nigger,  then.  Colonel  Ridley,"  the  ringleader 
asked,  turning  round  to  the  greater  ruffian  with  quite  submissivenesa. 

"  Well,  Bill  and  boys,"  Monte  Joe  replied  with  evident  condescen- 
sion  (as  becomes  a  man  who  has  dropped  his  fellow-citizens  freely,  in 
speaking  to  less  prominent  and  respected  townsmen),  *'  1  don't  exactly 
say  I  agree  with  him,  but  there's  a  deal  of  truth  in  what  he  claims,  any 
way.  If  you  drop  him  here,  nigger  or  no  nigger,  why  that's  murder. 
I  don't  say  it  ought  to  be  ;  but  such  is  the  law  of  the  United  States,  as 
at  present  unamended,  and  you've  got  to  submit  to  it.  Sooner  or  later, 
then,  it's  sure  to  get  about  east,  in  the  cities  or  town's,  that  you  boys 
murdered  him.  Well,  after  that,  the  press  '11  get  wind  of  it  across 
yonder  in  England,  and  his  friends  '11  put  the  executive  in  motion,  and 
they'll  waste  a  year  or  two  in  diplomacy  and  trouble  and  exchanging 
notes  ;  but,  before  they've  done,  they'll  have  the  whole  thing  disin- 
terred and  string  you  up,  as  sure  as  the  gospel — that's  so,  Bill.  Better 
let  the  nigger  keep  his  ring  any  way.  You  stick  to  accident  boys  and 
give  'em  the  sage-brush.  It's  every  bit  as  sure  and  ten  times  safer 
from  unpleasantness  of  any  sort." 

Chaparral  Bill  accepted  the  compromise.  It  goes  agin  the  grain,'* 
he  said,  with  a  regretful  sigh,  ''  to  see  a  nigger  go  off  with  a  ring  like 
that  right  away  to  the  sage-brush  ;  but  if  you  think  it's  best,  Joe,  it 
ain't  a  fellow -citizen's  dooty  to  differ  from  you  on  a  pint  of  etiquette — 
especially  as  you're  a  gentleman  of  known  experience  in  them  matters. 
Form  yourselves  in  order,  boys.  That's  so.  We'll  march  'em  right 
away  jest  now  to  the  frontier." 

The  boys  fell  in,  and  Ivan  and  Ali,  seeing  all  resistance  utterly  use- 
less before  the  face  of  such  overpowering  numbers,  marched  quietly 
down  betweep  their  ranks,  guarded  on  either  side  by  loaded  re?olTttii» 


TBI  DBYIL's  DIB.  217 

Por  three  miles  they  marched  on  and  down,  away  from  the  moun- 
tains, towards  the  Atlantic  slope.  As  they  went,  the  country  grew 
drier  and  ever  drier  before  them,  for  Eagle  City  lay  almost  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  dreaded  and  waterless  sage-brush  desert. 

At  a  point  where  the  sage-brush  began  to  deepen  and  thicken  drearily 
around  them,  Chaparral  Bill  called  a  halt.  The  boys  halted,  Chaparral 
Bill  pointed  with  his  hand  vaguely  eastward.  "That's  the  way  to 
England,"  he  said,  with  ironical  emphasis.  '*  Right  over  thar,  you 
can't  well  miss  it.  You've  only  got  to  cross  that  belt  of  gage  brush 
thar,  and — if  you  live — you'll  reach  the  prairie.  From  the  prairie, 
it's  easy  enough  to  rail  east  as  far  as  New  York,  whence  frequent  com- 
munication exists  by  steamer  with  all  the  principal  ports  of  Europe. 
Live  it  through,  and  you're  all  right.  I  guess  the  sage-brush  is  the 
only  thing  that'll  trouble  you.  You  know  your  road.  Keep  straight 
ahead,  and  in  time — if  you  don't  starve — you'll  get  to  England.  But 
if  you  attempt  to  turn  up  the  trail  by  Eagle  City  and  cross  the  Sierra, 
you'll  find  yourselves  suffering  from  a  severe  form  of  Montana  inflam- 
matory disease — an  ounce  of  lead  in  the  brain — before  to-morrow 
evening.  Now  march.  Boys,  we've  got  rid  of  the  nigger  and  hii 
friend.  Good  riddance.  No  blackguardism  allowed  in  Eagle  City. 
Give  'em  a  parting  cheer,  boys,  and  right  about  face  for  camp  again 
afore  this  doggone  desert  wind  chokes  us  I " 

At  the  word,  the  boys  drew  their  derringers,  and  fired  in  the  air  with 
a  loud  report.  Then  they  turned  in  good  order  and  marched  home- 
ward, leaving  Ivan  and  Ali  face  to  face  by  themselves  with  the  lonely 
desert. 

"  What  must  we  do  ? "  Ali  asked  in  despair. 

Ivan  took  in  the  full  terror  of  the  situation  better  than  the  black 
man.  *'  Three  days'  hard  walking  will  take  us  across  the  sage-brush," 
he  said  with  a  groan,  "  if  we  can  last  out  to  do  it.  It's  an  awful  walk, 
but  for  her  sake  we  must  try  it.  There's  only  one  chance  open  for  us 
— to  walk  as  far  and  as  hard  as  we  can  while  we  have  got  any  life  left 
in  us.  If  once  we  can  struggle  across  that  ghastly  plain — which  no 
man  ever  yet  crossed  on  foot — there's  food  and  water  at  the  other  side 
©fit." 


CHAPTER  XLL 

Bt  this  time  the  sun  had  risen  high  in  the  sky,  and  was  pouring 
down  upon  their  heatis  with  all  the  torrid  force  which  he  always  exerts 
in  sandy  desert  regions.  Mohammad  Ali  cast  a  glance  at  the  horrible 
waste  before  them,  and  then  turned  appealingly  to  Ivan.  "  Wouldn't 
it  be  best,"  he  said,  "  to  lie  by  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  push  on 
boldly  when  the  sun  goes  down  7  We  could  walk  better,  surely,  after 
nightfall     They  always  do  so  in  the  Eastern  desertt." 


ill  TBI  DXYIL'fl  DII. 

Ivan  shook  hi«i  head  in  emphatic  dissent.  "  No,"  he  answered  with 
prompt  decision.  *'  1  know  my  ground.  That's  all  very  well  for  men 
with  supplies,  but  for  us,  nothing  on  earth  could  well  be  worse.  At 
present^  we've  still  the  strength  of  food  and  drink  left  in  our  bodies. 
Thank  heaven,  they  gave  us  breakfast  before  we  started.  We  can  do 
a  good  many  miles  on  that,  if  we  push  on  hard,  before  evening.  But 
if  we  waited,  we  should  set  out  on  our  tramp  hungry  and  thirsty  and 
half  exhausted  to  start  with.  Let's  use  up  our  fresh  strength  to  the 
best  advantage  while  we've  still  got  any.  Ali,  it's  a  desperate  chance 
at  the  best.  No  human  being — not  even  a  red  Indian,  they  say — ever 
yet  crossed  this  desert  on  foot.  If  it  were  not  for  her,  I'd  never  even 
try  to  cross  it.  A  lingering  death's  all  we  can  expect.  It  would  be 
easier  far  to  draw  our  revolvers  and  fire  them  simultaneously  at  one 
another's  foreheads." 

'*  There's  no  way  round  across  the  mountains  7"  Ali  suggested  ten- 
tatively. 

Ivan  waived  his  hand  in  utter  despondency  over  the  distant  Sierra. 
**  Eagle  City  blocks  the  only  pass  for  two  hundred  miles  in  that  direc- 
tion, he  answered.  *'  There's  desert  everywhere,  howling  desert,  till 
you  reach  the  springs  of  the  Arroyo  river." 

Three  days'  distance,  without  food  or  drink,  through  that  waterless 
plain,  and  amid  those  dusty  levels  1  They  were  both  strong  ;  they 
were  both  brave  ,  but  no  human  resolution,  Mohammad  Ali  fancied, 
could  ever  enable  them  to  face  it  out,  with  tlie  hot  wind  blowing 
fiercely  in  their  scorched  faces,  and  the  blinding  alkali  drivmg  into  their 
eyes  from  oflF  the  long  vistas  of  that  poisoned  plain. 

He  stooped  down  and  looked  close  at  the  baked  and  gaping  ground. 
It  consisted  entirely  of  coarse  sand  shining  white  with  salt  and  alkaline 
matter,  and  sparsely  clothed  with  stunted  tussocks  of  a  dry  brown 
grass  in  between  the  taller  clumps  of  the  olive-grey  sagebrush.  **  It 
Hometimes  rains  here,"  he  cried,  turning  eagerly  to  Ivan.  "  See,  this 
grass  has  once  been  fresh  and  green.  I've  seen  its  like  in  the  Rajpu- 
tana  desert.  There  must  be  rain  for  grass  to  grow.  Light  showers 
must  sometimes  cover  the  ground  here,  too,  or  there  would'nt  be  any 
small  vegetation  among  the  desert  brushwood." 

Ivan  shook  his  head  gloomily.  **  No,  no,"  he  answered.  **  It  never 
rains  ;  absolutely  never,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  The  grass 
grows,  just  here  on  the  outskirts,  in  early  spring,  when  the  snow  first 
melts  on  the  lower  slopes  of  the  Sierra.  But  it's  only  for  a  week 
or  two.  After  that  it  dies  down  entirely.  The  grass  was  over  and 
f  ■  ne  on  the  outer  belt  a  clear  month  ago.  Further  on  in  the  desert 
there's  no  herbage  at  all,  dead  or  alive — nothing  but  sand  and  salt  and 
wiry  dry  sage-brush.  Don't  look  out  for  miracles,  Ali.  It's  no  good. 
Make  up  your  mind  for  the  worst  at  once.  Our  only  hope  is  in  pure 
hopelessness.  There's  not  a  single  drop  of  water  of  any  sort  between 
this  place  where  we  now  stand  and  the  edge  of  the  prairies." 

Nevertheless  they  must  tramp  and  try  it.  For  Olwen's  take,  II 
was  all  for  01  wen. 

I>wert,  desert — everywhere  desert  1 


warn  drtil'i  bii.  S19 

They  walked  on,  always  under  the  eye  of  that  blazing  sun,  through 
ft  sea  of  sand,  monotunous  and  illimitable.  No  shade,  no  change  no 
relief  anywhere.  Nothing  but  sand,  and  salt,  and  dust,  and  sunshine, 
mile  after  mile,  hour  after  hour,  in  wearisome  repetition.  And  so  like 
the  sea  in  this,  too,  that  as  they  moved  they  seemed  to  get  no  further 
on  their  way.  The  grey  horizon,  a  mere  thin  line  where  the  sweltering 
sand  faded  and  melted  into  the  sweltering  sky,  receded  and  receded 
•ver  dimly  before  them,  without  sign  or  landmark  to  measure  the  dis- 
tance they  had  yet  traversed.  So  they  walked  on  and  on  and  still  on, 
moving  slowly  forward  towards  nowhere,  in  a  straight  line,  marked 
out  for  them  roughly  by  the  direction  of  their  own  shadows.  And 
above  them,  far  behind,  the  white  Sierras  raised  up  towards  heaven 
their  spotless  peaks  of  untrodden  snow,  as  if  to  mock  and  torment 
them  with  the  torture  of  Tantalus.  That  was  their  only  possible 
measure  of  distance  done.  They  looked  back  often  towards  those 
silent  heights,  that  hardly  seem  to  fall  back  into  the  distance  at  all,  as 
the  two  unhappy  and  blinded  men  floundered  helplessly  on  among  the 
drifted  dust  heaps. 

At  the  end  of  three  hours'  hard  marching  they  came  to  a  rock.  It 
wasn't  much  of  a  rock.  Anywhere  else  in  the  world  they  would  hardly 
have  noticed  it,  for  it  was  a  small  rough  boulder,  standing  scarce  three 
feet  above  the  surface  of  the  plain,  but  it  cast  a  shadow — a  short 
shadow — the  hrst  shadow,  except  their  own,  they  had  seen  since  enter- 
ing that  awful  wilderness.  They  sat  down  of  one  accord,  without 
exchanging  a  word,  in  its  scanty  shade — the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in 
ft  thirsty  land.  Then  Mohammad  Ali  drew  forth  from  his  pocket  a 
small  spirit  flask.  At  its  bottom  lay  half  a  wine-glass  full  of  whiskey. 
It  was  all  they  had  to  keep  them  aJive  till  they  reached  the  prairie. 
He  dropped  four  or  five  drops  slowly,  as  if  by  measure,  on  his  own 
tongue.  Then  he  said  to  Ivan,  '*  Take  some,  too.  Let  it  lie  in  your 
mouth.     It'll  relieve  you  a  little." 

Ivan  took  it  and  did  as  he  was  bid.  Even  those  few  drops  seemed 
strangely  to  revive  their  flagging  courage.  Small  things  make  a  won- 
derful difference  in  extremities.  After  a  minute,  Ivan  rose  to  his  feet. 
*'  Let's  keep  moving,"  he  said  ;  if  we  once  stop  we  shall  get  stiff,  and 
it'll  be  all  che  harder  for  us  to  start  on  our  way  again. " 

They  started  once  more  and  walked  on  and  on— ever  onward  steadily 
towards  thai  receding  horizon,  "the  hours  seemed  so  long  that  Ivan 
could  hardly  believe  hia  watch  when  he  took  it  out  to  look,  had  not 
their  shadows  unmistakably  confirmed  its  message.  They  were  not 
walking  now  ;  they  were  staggering  and  reeling.  They  rolled  with  the 
gait  of  drunken  men.  The  desert  seemed  to  take  away  their  senses 
altogether.  Mohammad  Ali  wiped  his  diy  brow.  In  spite  of  the  heat 
and  the  toil,  they  had  ceased  to  perspire.  It  was  the  alkali,  choking 
and  clogging  the  pores  of  their  skin.  So  much  the  better,  that ;  there 
would  be  less  evaporation.  They  might  manage  to  hold  up  all  the 
lonj^er. 

But  the  pain  of  moving  their  limbs  was  excruciating.  Each  more- 
vient  felt  like  a  wrench  in  the  socket.     No  living  thing  seemed  U>  in* 


130  TBI  DETIL^  Dll. 

habit  this  gha«tly  and  lonely  waste  of  desert.  Not  even  a  lizard  skulked 
among  the  scrub  ;  not  even  a  beetle  hid  its  hard  wings  among  the  dull 
grey  foliag«. 

Still  they  marched  and  marched  and  marched,  till  evening  came,  and 
the  sun  set.  Then  the  desert  began  to  grow  cooler  around  them.  -  Ali's 
feet  were  sore  to  the  bone,  but  Ivan  walked  on  as  stoutly  as  ever.  The 
Englishman  seemed  to  have  the  greater  go.  At  last  Ali  gave  in  the 
first ;  not  that  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  give  in,  all  things  equal, 
but  his  shoes  were  thinner,  not  meant  for  Western  wear,  and  his  physi-' 
cal  sufiering  was  greater  than  Ivan's.  **  Shall  we  stop  now,"  he  said, 
**and  put  up  for  the  night  ?  I  suppose  you  mean  to  sleep  somewhere,- 
Royle.^' 

**  I  mean  to  stop,"  Ivan  answered  with  dry  and  almost  inarticulate 
throat ;  "  but  as  to  sleeping,  I'm  afraid  that's  quite  another  matter." 

They  sat  down  on  a  bare  patch  of  sand,  under  the  lee  of  a  thick 
clump  of  sage-brush  ;  for  the  dust  was  driving  before  the  light  breeze, 
and  would  soon  have  buried  them  deep  under  its  clouds  anywhere  in 
the  open.  They  had  not  tasted  food  since  morning,  nor  any  drink  ex- 
cept the  few  stinted  drops  of  whiskey.  A  little  spirit  was  still  left  at 
the  bottom  of  the  flask.  They  spared  it  for  the  present,  fearing  to 
waste  their  all  on  the  first  day  out.  Mohammad  Ali  looked  hard  in  his 
friend's  face.  For  a  long  time  he  seemed  to  debate  within  himself. 
Dare  he  speak,  or  would  it  anger  the  Englishman  ?  At  last,  with  an 
efibrt,  he  leaned  forward.  *'  Ivan,"  he  said,  clutching  his  friend's  arm 
convulsively,  "  there's  one  way  out  of  it  still,  one  way  to  get  you  back 
safe  to  Olwen.     We  needn't  both  die.     If  only "    And  he  hesitated. 

With  a  strange  start  of  recognition  Ivan  caught  instinctively  at  the 
Indian's  unspoken  moaning,  and  drew  back  with  a  face  of  speechless 
horror.  '*  Ali,"  he  cried,  "  don't  say  so  again.  Don't  breathe  a  word 
of  it.  Don't  dream  of  it,  Ali.  Don't  suggest  the  idea,  even.  You 
horrify  and  alarm  me.  Drop  the  notion  at  once.  For  God's  sake  ?  I 
implore  you,  forget  you  ever  even  thought  of  it." 

Ali  held  up  his  wrist  temptingly  before  his  face  and  stared  at  it  hard. 
Then  he  drew  his  pocket-knife  from  his  pocket  and  opened  the  blade 
with  a  quiet  look  of  resolute  determination.  He  put  one  finger  on  the 
left-hand  pulse.  He  could  feel  it  beating  and  throbbing  wildly  within 
there.  "  If  you  could  only  make  up  your  mind  to  it,  Royle,"  he  cried, 
in  a  piteous  voice.  "It's  our  solitary  hope.  We  can  never,  never 
make  our  way  together  across  this  endless  desert.  Why  should  both 
die  when  one  would  be  sufficient.  For  her  sake — for  her  sake.  If  you 
won't  agree  to  it,  we  must  both  die.  If  you  will,  only  one  of  us — 
me — need  be  sacrificed.  Men  have  done  it  before,  in  the  extremity  of 
famine  ;  and  the  world  has  pardoned  them  on  the  plea  of  necessity. 
And  in  this  case  I  give  myself  up  willingly  to  assist  your  escape.  You 
needn't  even  see  it ;  you  can  drink  as  a  child  drinks  from  its  mother's 
breast.     Suppose,  by  accident,  now,  the  knife  were  to  slip " 

With  a  wild  cry  of  horror  and  aflfright  wrung  from  his  parched  lips, 
Ivan  Royle  seized  the  Indian's  light  wrist  in  his  strong  hand,  and, 
w?esting  from  him  the  open  knife,  flung  it  with  all  hif  might  in  a  greal 


THB   devil's  DIB.  SSI 

arch  a  hundred  yards  off  among  the  scrubby  sage-brush.  The  emotion 
of  the  moment  seemed  to  supply  hira  as  if  by  miracle  with  fresh 
strength  and  even  to  moisten  his  dry  throat.  "  Ali,"  he  cried,  taking 
both  the  Indian's  dusky  hands  in  his,  and  gazing  earnestly  into  his 
great  black  eyes,  *'  don't,  don't,  for  heaven's  sake  don't !  You  can't 
imagine  how  you  shock  and  distress  me.  I  know  how  you  mean  it — 
what  noble  and  generous  self-sacrifice  it  is  ;  but  I  can't  bear  even  to 
hear  you  speak  of  it.  It  revolts  me  through  every  nerve  in  my  body. 
Ali,  Ali,  my  dear,  dear  fellow,  do  spare  me  any  more.  This  hunger 
and  thirst  and  fatigue  is  bad  enough.  Don't  make  it  worse  for  us  by 
such  horrible  suggestions  of  impossible  expedients." 

Ali  flung  himself  down  in  despair  on  the  sand.  '*  Then  it's  all  up," 
lie  said.  *' Kismet,  kismet.  We  sh all  r. ever  either  of  us  get  back  alive. 
There's  no  hope.  We  must  die  where  we  stand.  Two  more  such  days 
are  simply  impossible. " 

Ivan  crouched  gloomily  down  by  his  side,  and  held  the  black  man'i 
hand  in  his  own  with  infinite  sympathy.  Exce])t  in  supreme  momenta 
of  emergency  or  peril,  men  are  seldom  demonstrative  to  one  another. 
But  there  comes  a  point  at  last  in  the  fight  for  life  at  which  the  mutual 
reserve  of  men  dreaks  down  utterly,  and,  face  to  face  with  death  or 
despair,  they  become  tender  as  women  in  their  care  and  solicitude  for 
each  other's  feelings.  The  tears  stood  clear  in  Ivan's  eyes.  "Spare 
them,  Ivan  ;  for  heaven's  sake  spare  them  ! "  Ali  cried  with  an  effort. 
*'  Every  drop  of  moisture  in  your  blood  is  life  to  you  now."  And  aa 
he  spoke,  his  own  tears  rose  brimming  to  the  surface,  and  trickled 
slowly  down  his  dark  cheek.  The  men  clasped  each  other's  hands  like 
two  school  girls,  and  lay  down  together  side  by  side  under  the  open 
heaven  on  the  bare  sand.  The  stars  were  coming  out  now  overhead, 
•ne  by  one,  and  the  desert  was  growing  rapidly  cooler  and  fresher.  A 
great  silence  reigned  upon  the  scene.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  ominous 
stillness  of  death  ;  no  hum  of  insects,  no  cry  of  birds,  no  distant  con- 
fused murmur  of  life  in  any  way.  In  the  forest,  night  mikes  the  still- 
ness audible  ;  in  the  arid  sand- wastes,  night  makes  the  stillness  pro- 
founder  and  more  appalling  than  ever.  For  leagues  around,  tho  desert 
lay  dead  and  mute  in  the  dim  starlight,  and  the  sand  and  the  sage- 
brush stretched  away  illimitable  towards  the  grey  horizon  on  every 
side,  with  those  two  desolate  and  footsore  creatures  huddled  together, 
alone  and  helpless,  an  oasis  of  humanity  in  its  very  midst. 

"Good  night,"  Ivan  said,  turning  round  on  his  side  for  pure  weari- 
-ness. 

"  Good  night,"  Ali  answered,  half  conscious  even  then  in  his  own 
mind  of  the  bitter  mockery  of  that  conventional  salutation,  and  clos- 
ing his  eyes  with  painful  effort  to  keep  out  tho  dust  of  the  all'p§rw 
dkig  alkali. 


122  TBS  d&vil'b  OUL 


C5HAPTBR  XLn. 

Stranob  to  say,  they  both  slept,  slept  soundly,  and  never  stirred  till 
morning  had  begun  to  whiten  the  eastern  horizon.  They  woke  with  a 
start,  to  find  themselves  once  more  in  the  midst  of  the  desert.  Pure 
fatigue  had  made  them  fall  asleep  without  food  or  drink  ;  but  when 
they  raised  themselves  on  their  elbows  and  stared  around,  their 
mouths  were  white  and  dry  and  leathery,  and  their  swollen  tongues 
oould  hardly  utter  a  single  word  for  want  of  internal  moisture. 
Mohammad  Ali  drew  the  precious  flask  lovingly  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it,  with  a  gesture  of  his  hands,  to  Ivan.  Ivan  dropped  four 
drops  on  his  wrinkled  tongue,  and  passed  it  wearily  back  again.  Ali 
nodded,  and  screwing  down  the  lid  with  jealous  care,  was  just  replacing 
it  untasted  in  his  pocket  when  Ivan  checked  him.  *'Stop,"  he  cried, 
rolling  the  wretched  pittance  of  spirit  round  his  parched  mouth. 
•'  Why,  what  on  earth  are  you  doing,  Ali  ?  You  haven't  taken  a  drop 
yourself  yet." 

Ali  nodded  a  second  time  and  shook  his  head.  He  couldn't  speak — 
his  tongue  refused  to  utter  a  sound — but  he  drew  a  note-book  and  pen- 
cil hastily  from  his  pocket  and  wrote  down  on  the  page  in  a  hurried 
hand.  "  I  don't  need  any.  I  will  go  on  with  you  as  long  as  I  last.  But 
it  doesn't  matter  so  much  about  me.  The  important  point  is  to  get 
you  back  in  safety  to  England." 

Ivan  seized  him  once  more  almost  roughly  by  the  arm.  "  Ali,"  he 
cried,  with  passionate  vehemence,  "if  you  talk  like  this  you'll  drive 
me  mad.  Whatever  it  is,  we  must  share  it  together.  You  must  take 
four  drops  yourself,  as  I  did  ;  and  if  we  die,  we  shall  die  in  company, 
by  one  another's  sides.  You  shall  never  leave  me,  and  I  will  never 
leave  you.  We'll  struggle  through,  shoulder  to  shoulder."  He  took 
the  flask  with  a  wrench  from  the  unresisting  black  man,  and,  unscrew- 
ing it  once  more,  held  it  up  to  his  friend's  mouth. 

Ali  accepted  the  proffered  drops  with  his  hands  crossed  in  mute 
resignation.  **Let  us  go  Ivan,"  he  said,  as  he  rolled  them  round  and 
^ound  speech  again.  *'  We  can  walk  better  before  the  sun's  up.  When 
it's  high  in  the  sky  and  burning  overhead,  we  can  rest  again  in  the 
shelter  of  the  sage-brush." 

They  rose  and  shook  themselves  mechanically  like  dogs.  The  gleam 
in  the  east  fixed  the  points  of  the  compass  for  them,  and  they  began  to 
walk  towards  the  unrisen  sun.  Sleep  had  rested  and  refreshed  Ivan  ; 
Ali,  more  wiry  and  enduring,  but  physically  slighter,  felt  less  relieved 
by  that  spell  of  empty  slumber.  He  had  not  so  much  to  fall  back  upon 
in  the  way  of  reserve,  and  repair  was  wanting.  Moreover,  his  feet 
ached  terribly.  But  he  said  not  a  word  of  complaint  to  discourage  hig 
companion.     Patient  and  silent,  he  plodded  on. 


TBS  DBVIL's  DK.  M 

At  last,  about  eleven  o'clock,  the  heat  became  intense  and  unendar- 
able,  and  Ali  could  hardly  move  one  weary  limb  slowly  before  the  other; 
Yet  he  went  on  walking  in  a  mechanical  way,  though  his  legs  felt  as  if 
they  did  not  belong  to  him,  but  were  a  sort  of  appendage  or  artificial 
joint  he  could  stretch  out  still  by  a  violent  effort  somehow  in  front  of 
him.  He  was  wondering  in  his  own  heart  how  much  longer  he  could 
hold  out  against  this  terrible  exertion,  when  suddenly,  to  his  great 
surprise,  Ivan  without  one  word  sat  down,  or  rather  collapsed,  on  the 
bare  sand,  and,  burying  his  face  in  his  two  hands,  rocked  himself  to 
and  frt)  wildly  in  a  perfect  agony  of  impotent  fatigue. 

Ali  drew  the  flask  for  the  ladt  time  reluctantly  from  his  pocket.  A 
few  precious  drops  still  remained  at  the  bottom.  He  drained  them 
fast  down  Ivan's  throat.  It  was  their  last  taste  of  food  or  drink. 
They  might  starve  now  in  the  midst  of  the  desert.  All  hope  was  gone. 
Death  stared  them  in  the  face.  Ivan's  collapse  was  sudden  and  abso- 
lute. Like  many  strong  men,  he  held  out  long,  but  when  he  failed  he 
failed  at  once  and  far  more  abjectly  than  his  weaker  companion.  He 
flung  himself  flat  on  his  back  in  the  eye  of  the  sun,  and  waited  for 
death  with  the  stoical  resignation  of  fatigue  and  despair. 

A  man  takes  a  long  time  to  starve  in  a  temperate  climate,  when  he 
sits  still  and  does  nothing.  But  in  that  warping  desert,  and  after  that 
long  forced  march,  death  would  doubtless  be  somewhat  more  merciful 
to  them.  They  might  live  through  the  day,  and  even  the  night,  in 
silent  misery,  but  to-morrow's  hot  sun  would  surely  do  for  them. 
There  was  hope  in  that — for  to  such  hope  were  they  now  reduced. 
All  chance  of  saving  Ivan  for  Olwen  was  gone  for  aver.  To  starve  aa 
fast  as  possible  was  all  they  could  look  forward  to. 

Starve  !  They  must  sarve  !  But  why  starve  at  all  ?  When  one 
stands  so  close  to  a  terrible  death,  why  shrink  from  availing  one's  self 
of  the  means  for  shortening  one's  torment  ?  Englishmen  are  brought 
up  to  treat  suicide  as  a  crime,  to  cling  to  the  last  chance  of  bare  life  as 
an  actual  duty.  The  Moslem  knows  no  such  theory  of  right.  To  him, 
a  moment  comes  at  last  when  suicide  is  not  only  Yiot  wrong  but  almost 
imperative.  Ali  took  out  his  revolver  from  his  pocket,  and  toyed  with 
the  cartridges.  A  wild  thought  flashed  across  his  mind  once  more.  Sup- 
pose he  were  to  hold  it  to  his  forehead  and  fire  'i  Ivan,  who  would  not 
consent  to — to  his  proposed  compromise — as  things  stood,  might,  per- 
haps, when  he  saw  him  lying  there  dead  and  shattered  before  him, 
steel  up  his  courage  to  the  point  of 

With  another  wild  dash,  Ivan,  opening  his  eyes,  snatched  away  the 
revolver,  and  buried  it  deep  in  his  own  pockets.  Horror  and  fear 
gave  him  tongue  once  more.  **Ali,"  he  cried,  "I  know  what  you 
mean.  Don't  dream  of  such  things.  It's  quite,  quite  useless.  Let  us 
die  here  quietly.  I  could  sleep  with  fatigue.  Don't  weary  me  more. 
I  shall  soon  be  insensible."  And  he  groaned  aloud.  *'  Let  me  die  in 
peace,"  he  moaned  out  at  last,  *'  by  promising  me  not  fco  try  any  such 
desperate  remedies." 

Ali  stifled  a  groan  himself  and  answered  solemnly,  **  Ivan,  I  promise." 

They  lay  a  long  whil«  silent  once  more,  in  the  speechless  misery  of  a 


224  TBI  ditil's  Dim 

last  despair  ;  and  then,  after  two  hours,  Ivan  again  opened  hii  ejef. 
*'  I've  slept,"  he  said,  almost  inarticulately.  "I've  dreamt,  too — hor- 
rible dreams.  1  shall  die  soon.  Let's  take  your  note-book  and  write 
a  few  words.  Somebody  may  find  our  bodies  some  time  or  other.  A 
few  words  to  let  01  won  know  we  died  for  her." 

"No,"  Ali  answered,  quite  firmly  and  dearly.  **Let  us  write 
nothing.  It  is  better  not.  Let  us  leave  no  record  to  say  who  we  were 
or  how  wo  died.  Olwen  will  never  know  then.  All  they  will  say  in 
England  is  that  we  disappeared  in  the  Sierra  and  were  never  heard  of. 
Don't  vex  her  with  the  knowledge  of  how  we  died,  Ivan." 

Ivan  turned  over  listlessly  on  his  side  once  more  and  groaned  agai*. 
He  could  not  speak,  but  he  felt  in  his  heart  that  the  black  man'a  was 
the  nobler  and  truer  impulse. 

Day  wore  on,  and  the  sun,  after  pouring  down  upon  them  hour  upon 
hour  with  merciless  intensity,  began  at  last  to  sink  in  the  heavens. 
Both  men  had  relapsed  now  into  a  kind  of  dreary,  weary,  comatose 
condition  ;  they  lay  on  their  backs  dying  in  the  desert ;  they  saw  and 
felt  and  remembered  nothing.  Evening  came  on,  but  still  they  lay 
there.  The  desert  stretched  white  and  bare  around  them.  The  sage- 
brush crackled  and  whispered  as  it  shrank  with  the  change  from  heat 
to  cold.  A  strange  shiver  passed  through  the  sand.  A  sort  of  low 
hum  arose  from  the  warped  branches.  Then  a  pause  came.  Some- 
thing shook  them  vigorously  as  they  lay  on  the  bare  earth.  A  rumb- 
ling noise  passed  through  the  ground.  The  noise  awoke  Mohammad 
Ali  once  more.  He  raised  himself  feebly  on  his  elbows  and  gazed 
around.     It  was  dark  now,  and  growing  quite  chilly. 

Deserts  are  always  cold  at  night.  The  heat  accumulated  during  the 
day  radiates  off  rapidly  as  soon  as  the  sun  is  gone,  through  the 
absence  of  watery  vapour  in  the  air ;  and  by  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  cold  is  often  as  intense  as  the  heat  was  sweltering  and 
unendurable  at  noontide.  Ali  shivered  with  the  change  of  temperature. 
As  he  did  so,  some  sound  seemed  to  strike  his  ear.  He  listened  awhile. 
Surely,  surely,  he  heard  something  1  He  put  his  hand  to  his  ear  and 
listened  again.  Yes,  yes,  he  was  sure  of  it.  No  European  ear  would 
have  caught  a  sound  ;  but  Ali's  quick  Arab  hearing  seized  upon  it  at 
once  with  Eastern  acuteness.  It  was  a  noise  of  something  stealing  and 
trickling  down  a  distant  ravine.  It  was — it  was,  the  murmur  of  water  1 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  in  great  joy.  The  very  sound  of  its  plash, 
caught  dimly  in  his  ear,  seemed  to  revive  and  invigorate  him  as  if  by 
magic.  The  cold,  too,  gave  him  fresh  strength  for  the  moment.  He 
moistened  his  lips  with  a  terrible  effort,  and  cried  aloud  to  the  uncona- 
cious  Ivan,  **  Water  1  Water  I " 

Ivan  opened  his  eyes  slowly.  ** Where? "he  gasped,  and  closed 
them  quickly  again. 

**  Within  a  mile  or  two,"  Ali  answered,  almost  gay  with  the  prospect, 
**  I  can  hear  it  flowing.  Get  up,  get  up — do  try,  dear  Ivan.  If  only 
we  can  reach  it,  it'll  be  all  right  yet." 

Ivan  let  his  head  fall  back  ouoe  more  like  a  atone.     **  l^ot  ten  itepe 


TBI  i>;;:yiL'8  dib.  ft.'^ 

farther,**  he  ranrmured,  **  for  life  itself.    I'm  dead  beak     Let  me  die^ 

Ali." 

Ali  stooped  down  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  brow.  It  was  hot  with 
fever.  "Royle,"he  said,  **  lie  still  by  yourself  then.  See  here,  I'll 
tie  my  handkerchief  to  the  tallest  bit  of  brush  anywhere  about.  That'll 
do  for  a  mark  when  I've  found  the  water.  I'll  go  in  search  of  it,  and 
bring  you  a  flaskful." 

Without  another  word — for  even  words  were  precious  now — Moham- 
mad Ali  tied  his  white  handkerchief  to  a  straggling  top  of  sage-brush  a 
hundred  yards  oflF,  and  Btaf:^gered  forth,  weary  and  footsore,  but  ani- 
mated once  more  by  fresh  h(^pe  and  a  wild  desire,  in  the  direction  from 
which  he  thought  the  sound  proceeded.  The  moon  was  rising,  a  tiny 
crescent,  from  the  desert  as  he  went,  and  a  little  light  served  just  to 
guide  his  stumbling  footsteps.  Over  the  crusted  alkali  he  made  his  way 
blindly  across  the  dead  plain.  After  ten  minutes  struggling  he  halted 
and  put  his  hand  to  either  ear  alternately.  Oh,  joy  1  The  plash  of 
water  fell  distinctly  on  his  ear.  He  summoned  up  all  his  courage,  with 
tottering  limbs,  and  walked  on  once  more.  He  was  drawing  near  to 
it.  Nearer  and  nearer.  The  ravine  lay  black  in  the  shadow  before 
him. 

A  ipring  from  the  mountains  mast  run  down  its  midst.  He  stumbled 
along  and  looked  down  over  the  brink,  an  abrupt  brink,  likd  the  clifia 
in  Cornwall.  Hurrah,  hurrah  I  There  was  water,  water.  He  could 
see  it  glistening  dimly  below — a  long  series  of  cataracts,  in  a  tiny 
stream,  bubbling  and  gurgling  down  that  long  dry  valley.  Without 
one  moment's  hesitation,  buckling  himself  to  the  task,  he  began  to 
clamber,  hand- over-hand,  down  the  wall-like  sides  of  smooth  rock  that 
hemmed  it  in,  trusting  for  foothold  to  the  ledges  or  holes,  and  clinging 
for  support  to  the  stems  of  sage-brush  that  here  and  there  had  rooted 
themselves  deep  m  the  weathered  crannies. 

Half  way  down,  a  treacherous  stump  of  the  dry  brush  misled  his  feet. 
He  tried  the  next  with  a  violent  struggle.  It  broke  short.  Moham- 
mad Ali  felt  himself  slipping.  He  clutched  for  support  at  the  tops  of 
the  jutting  aud  overhanging  sage-brush.  The  dry  twigs  snapped  ofl 
like  tinder.  He  was  falling,  falling.  Dizzy  and  giddy,  clinging  as  he 
went  to  bush  after  bush  of  the  sapless  stuff,  he  rolled  or  fell  some  thir^ 
feet  down,  lighting  at  last  on  hands  and  knees  upon  the  naked  platform 
of  rock  at  the  bottom.  He  had  checked  his  fall,  but  only  just  checked 
it.  His  palms  and  fingers  were  horribly  torn,  his  clothes  were  rent, 
and  his  leg  was  bruised  and  bleeding  freely  from  the  knee  to  the  ankle. 
Stunned  by  the  fall,  he  lay  there  still  and  half -conscious  for  a  moment, 
while  a  hideous  vision  floated  before  his  mind's  eye.  He  saw  Ivan 
lying,  dead  and  lonely,  on  the  bare  desert  behind  where  he  had  left 
him,  and  himself  lying,  dead  and  lonely,  too,  almost  within  arm's  reach 
of  the  blessed  stream  that  purled  aud  bubbled  audibly  beside  him. 
Then  his  eyes  closed,  and  he  lost  consciousness  for  ten  minutes. 
When  they  opened  again  the  sound  of  the  gurgling  brook  at  his  sidii, 
louder  than  before,  once  more  revived  him.  Ho  raised  himself  on  his 
hands  and  kneea  and  crawled*  or  rather  dragged  his  fainting  body,  cloM 


S26  THE  dbvil's  dik. 

to  the  edge.  As  he  neared  it,  he  was  aware  of  a  curious  sense  of  being 
back  in  London.  Something  of  civilization  seemed  to  strike  his  mind. 
It  was  an  odour,  a  familiar  odour,  he  fancied,  that  aroused  the  feeling. 
He  associated  it,  somehow,  with  an  ironmonger's  shop  in  a  street  at 
Hampstead.  Was  he  wandering  in  his  mind,  or  was  it  the  smell  of  a 
lamp?  Surely,  surely,  this  xvunt  be  Hampstead.  Ah,  horror  1  He 
bent  at  last  above  the  limpid  bro(jk,  that  shone  and  glittered  and  ran 
silver  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  well  within  reach — he  could  taste  it 
now.  But  it  wasn't  water.  It  had  mocked  his  search.  He  scooped 
up  a  handful  in  his  hollow  palm,  and  held  it  towards  his  lips.  With  a 
sickening  sense  of  utter  despair  he  flung  it  from  him  wildly  again.  The 
whole  truth  flashed  across  his  weary  and  maddened  brain  in  an  awful 
Awakening.  The  stream  he  had  risked  so  much  to  reach  was  running, 
not  with  water,  but  with  pure  petroleum  I 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

That  hideous  and  utter  frustration  of  all  his  hopes  sent  Ali  back 
again  into  unconsciousness  once  more.  Faint  and  weak  from  loss  of 
blood,  weary  with  walking,  climbing,  and  crawling,  sick  at  heart  with 
hope  deferred,  nay,  rather,  defeated  and  brought  to  naught — he  gave 
himself  up  at  last  to  final  despair,  and  took  willing  refuge  in  the  arms 
of  death  or  insensibility.  For  hours  he  lay  there  in  the  stupor  of  fati- 
gue, like  one  fast  asleep,  without  turning  or  waking.  When  he  opened 
his  eyes  dreamily  again,  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  a  smart  breeze  \^as 
blowing  sharply  down  the  narrow  canyon  from  the  mountain  region. 

He  sat  up,  amazed,  and  gazed  with  vacant  eyes  around  him.  On 
either  side,  black  walls  of  rock  rose  perpendicular  to  the  narrow  chink 
of  sky  overhead  ;  so  perpendicular  that  he  wondered  within  himself 
how  he  could  ever  have  dreamed  in  the  dark  last  night  of  clambering 
down  them  so  boldly  and  successfully.  To  scale  them  back  again  would 
be  absolutely  impossible,  for  the  sage-brush  failed  near  the  bottom  of 
the  cliflF,  where  the  rock  stood  naked,  sharp,  and  sheer  as  a  wall,  so 
that  no  foothold  was  anywhere  afforded  for  the  first  two  or  three  yards 
of  perpendicular  surface.  But  to  get  up,  under  any  circumstances, 
would  have  been  simply  out  of  the  question,  as  things  now  stood.  It 
was  at  least  possible  to  walk  down  the  canyon.  He  would  try  that 
while  his  \e^  could  carry  him. 

Raising  himself  with  difficulty  to  his  feet,  Mohammad  Ali  gazed  awe- 
•truck  down  that  narrow  gap  between  the  rearing  mountain  of  rock 
that  ton'ered  unscaleable  on  either  hand.  Only  a  distance  of  some 
forty  or  fifty  feet  separated  the  opposite  walls  of  the  gorge  from  one 
another.  That  ravine  had  clearly  not  been  worn  by  the  existing 
ttream  ;  a  wretched  little  dribbling  thvead  of  petroleum  could  never 
bav9  excavated  so  deep  and  wide  and  precipitous  a  gorge,  even  with 


THE   devil's   DIB.  327 

the  illimitable  bank  of  geological  time  to  draw  upon  for  the  process. 
It  ^a3  the  dry  bed  of  some  vast  but  now  diverted  river. 

The  canjfon  was  covered  at  irregular  intervals  by  long  white  piles  of 
mouldering  matter  which  Ali  at  first  imagined  to  be  mere  heaps  of 
drifted  or  concreted  alkali.  But  looking  closer  at  the  nearest  of  them 
all,  some  ten  yards  off,  he  saw  to  his  surprise  it  was  really  bones— 
dried  and  pulverized  and  decaying  bones — the  skeletons  of  starved  and 
thirsty  beasts  that  had  fallen  and  perished  there  in  the  extremity  of 
famine.  He  dragged  himself  along  feebly  to  the  first  in  order.  The 
greater  part  of  the  skeleton  had  crumbled  away  into  white  dust,  but 
the  horns  remained  untouched  in  any  way,  and  from  them,  as  well  as 
from  the  great  thigh  bones  and  massive  vertebrae  he  saw  at  once  that 
the  animal  to  which  they  belonged  had  been  a  prairie  buffalo.  Had  it 
fallen  from  the  top  or  wandered  up  the  bed  of  the  stream  he  won- 
dered ?  Clearly  the  last,  for  the  skeletons  all  occupied  the  central 
line  of  the  dry,  waterless  ravine,  where  they  had  staggered  and  fallen, 
as  Ivan  staggered  and  fell  yesterday,  weary  and  thirsty  and  blinded 
with  the  alkali.  Ali's  heart  gave  one  wild  pulsation  of  hope  once  more 
at  the  implication  of  that  undeniable  fact.  They  had  staggered  up 
thus  far,  he  felt  sure,  from  the  prairie. 

Then  the  prairie  itself  could  not  after  all  be  so  very  far  distant.  Per- 
haps he  might  still  manage,  for  Ivan's  sake,  to  reach  it. 

And  yet  it  was  far  enough  for  even  the  buffaloes  to  have  failed  and 
fallen  with  thirst  by  the  way.  How,  then,  could  they  two  ever  hope 
to  reach  it  ? 

He  crawled  on  idly,  he  knew  not  why,  down  the  baking  canyon,  for 
every  step  cost  him  agonies  of  pain,  and  examined  the  next  heap  with 
useless  curiosity.  It  was  somewhat  fresher  and  newier  than  the  last ; 
the  bones  in  this  case  were  almost  all  intact,  and  Ali's  trained  ana- 
tomical eye  noticed  instinctively  that  the  smaller  ones  were  without 
exception  missing.  He  knew  what  that  meant.  The  thighs  and 
backbones  and  ribs  were  there,  but  the  skull  was  broken,  and  the 
minor  tail  and  neck  bones,  as  well  as  the  digits,  were  visibly  gnawed 
by  teeth  of  animals.  Beasts  of  prey  had  followed  and  devoured  the 
fallen  buffalo. 

Then  the  buffalo  had  been  pursued  up  the  canyon  from  the  prairie 
by  wolves  or  coyotes.  So  much  was  clear.  Perhaps,  after  all,  since 
the  coyotes  could  reach  this  point  in  pursuit  of  prey,  the  prairie  was 
nearer  than  he  at  first  imagined. 

Further  down  the  gap,  as  he  looked  ahead,  a  still  more  entire  skele- 
ton lay  close  by  the  bubbling  stream  of  petroleum.  The  Indian  drag- 
ged himself  painfully  along  once  more  till  he  was  nearly  abreast  of  it 
by  the  side  of  the  stream.  As  he  gazed  he  saw  a  sight  that  thrilled 
him  afresh  with  a  profound  thrill  of  hope  and  expectation.  The  bonee 
were  bare  and  white  and  clear  of  flosh — licked  clean  evidently  by  a 
pack  of  coyotes — but  there  were  visible  traces  of  red  blood  scattered 
upon  the  sand  that  lay  around  them.  That  was,  indeed  a  clue  to  go 
upon.     The  buffalo  had  but  recently  been  killed  and  eaten. 

Mohaoimad  Ali  carefully  examined  the  bare  fragments.     Tba  Muall 


22tf  THB   DKTIL'B  DIB. 

bones  had  been  crunched  and  cracked,  and  in  many  cases  eaten,  but 
the  larger  ones  lay  siill  quite  fresh  and  unbroken  in  their  original 
positions.  An  inarticulate  cry  burst  wildly  from  his  lips.  He  opened 
his  mouth  and  cried  with  all  his  might,  but  no  sound  of  any  sort  issued 
from  his  organs  ;  his  throat  and  larynx  were  too  dry  and  parched  for 
voice  or  sound  at  all  to  frame  itself.  With  the  famished  rush  of  a 
starving  man,  Mohammad  Ali  fell  fiercely  upon  the  skeleton.  It  was 
food,  food — food  in  abundance.  He  lifted  one  great  thigh-bone  high 
in  the  air,  and  dashed  it  shivering  on  the  naked  rock  beside  him. 
The  bone  broke  into  a  dozen  fragments,  and  Ali,  going  down  on  hands 
and  knees,  and  crammed  the  raw  marrow  that  spurted  forth,  mad  with 
excitement,  into  his  dry  throat,  in  all  the  wild  joy  of  rescue  from 
starvation.  There  was  food,  food — food — for  both  of  them  ;  food  and 
drink,  for  the  marrow  was  still  soft  and  full  of  juice — the  cool  liquid 
giving  him  heart  again  to  look  for  Ivan.  He  ate  it  ravenously  and 
then  broke  another.  Famine  reduces  us  all  to  the  level  of  the  savage. 
Bone  after  bone  he  smashed  against  the  rock  in  eager  haste,  and 
swallowed  the  raw  fat  with  all  the  frantic  madness  of  extreme  hunger. 
At  last,  when  the  first  edge  of  his  appetite  was  somewhat  appeased,  h« 
lay  back  and  rested. 

If  Ivan  had  been  there  AL  would  have  thought  first  of  Ivan.  But 
the  one  point  now  was  to  recruit  his  strength  sufficiently  to  enable  him 
to  return  to  his  fallen  companion.  Mari'ow  was  precious  ;  but  even 
marrow  itself — worth  ten  thousand  times  its  weight  in  gold  just  then — 
must  be  lavished  like  waiter — like  water,  indeed  I  oh,  the  irony  of 
language  I — for  Ivan  and  Olwen.  He  took  oflf  his  socks,  and  rubbed 
his  blistered  and  swollen  feet  above  and  below  with  the  priceless  eint- 
ment.  What  a  sense  of  relief  the  rich  fat  gave  him  I  He  rubbed  it 
lightly  over  his  face  and  hards  and  neck,  all  sore  and  smarting  with 
the  warping  wind  and  the  astringent  alkali.  It  soothed  and  quieted 
the  pain  at  once. 

After  a  while,  as  life  and  strength  returned,  he  began  breaking  more 
small  bones,  and  filling  the  flaak  with  their  oily  liquor.  Happily,  too, 
it  was  not  all  oil ;  a  great  part  of  it  was  fresh  animal  juice — the  best  beef 
tea,  in  fact,  naturally  extracted.  As  soon  as  the  flask  was  quite  full,  he 
went  on  to  break  the  remaining  large  bones,  and  empty  the  contents  into 
the  hollow  of  hii»  hp.t,  for  h?  fortunately  wore  a  round  pith  helmet. 
Starving  men  are  not  dainty.  Food  and  drink  to  recruit  their  strength 
sufficiently  for  crossing  the  rest  of  the  desert — that  was  the  one  great 
thing  now  to  be  considered.  A  hat  in  such  circumstances  is  quite 
good  enough.  If  only  he  could  anyhow  get  back  to  Ivan  I  But  the 
more  he  looked  at  those  perpendicular  black  walls  of  rock,  the  more 
hopeless  did  the  attempt  to  scale  them  seem.  He  might  conceivably 
have  got  up  empty-handed  ;  but  with  the  hemlet  full  of  marrow  to  olog 
his  arms,  never,  never,  infallibly  never. 

Necessity,  however,  is  the  mother  of  invention.  As  AJi  lay  on  the 
naked  rock  and  gazed  up  listlessly  at  the  narrow  ohink  of  grey-blue 
•ky  stretched  overhead,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  with  a  burst  of 
thought  that  bo  might  first  climb  up  himself  and  then  draw  up  thf 


THB  DETIL'i  DIE.  229 

helmet  after  him.  He  had  no  string,  indeed,  but  string  can  be  made  ; 
ft  man  with  %  shirt  on  need  never  lack  for  cord  on  occasion.  He  pulled 
off  his  upper  garments,  and  taking  off  his  shirt,  tore  the  body  and 
sleeves  into  long  and  narrow  shreds  of  calico.  These  he  fastened 
together  with  knots  into  a  rude  rope,  and  suspended  the  helmet  from 
the  end  by  three  tags,  gipsy-kettle  fashion,  so  that  it  might  be  pulled 
up  after  him  without  danger  of  spilling.  If  only  he  could  scale  the 
bluffs  himself,  now,  all  would  yet  be  well.  As  the  food  he  had  eaten 
began  to  course  more  freely  through  his  veins,  he  regained  his  usual 
indomitable  courage  and  energy. 

Picking  his  way  cautiously  up  the  canyon  once  more,  between  the 
rocks  and  boulders  that  strewed  its  dry  bed,  where  the  stream  of  petro- 
leum ran  in  a  slender  thread  down  the  midst,  he  reached  at  last  a  point 
above  where  the  rock  was  riven  in  a  laternal  crack  on  one  side,  and  a 
practicable  ascent  might  perhaps  be  ventured.  He  laid  down  the 
helmet  with  care  on  the  rock,  and  tying  the  end  of  his  calico  rope  to  a 
button-hole  of  his  coat,  he  began  cautiously  to  scale  this  lateral  open- 
ing. As  he  did  so,  he  noticed  to  his  immense  surprise  that  the  rent 
by  which  he  was  mounting  was  quite  new — a  rift  in  the  rock  evidently 
cloven  by  some  internal  force  of  very  recent  date  indeed.  At  the 
moment,  he  attached  no  importance  to  this  fact.  He  merely  recognized 
in  a  vague  way  that  it  must  have  something  to  do  with  the  newness 
of  the  petroleum  stream,  whose  very  recent  origin  he  had  observe  I 
earlier  by  the  indications  in  the  central  valley.  But  when  a  man  is 
climbing  a  precipice  for  dear  life,  with  his  friend  lying  possibly  deal 
in  the  desert  before  him,  he  has  hardly  time  or  inclination,  one  may 
well  believe,  for  geological  speculation.  Ali  only  noticed,  in  a  care- 
less kind  of  way,  that  the  cleft  was  new  and  quite  clean  cut,  because, 
being  nowhere  weathered,  it  afforded  him  the  easier  and  safer  foothold 
on  its  sharp  ledges  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  no  friendly  sage-brush 
by  which  to  hold  on  yet  grew  spontaneous  in  the  fresh  cracks,  so  that 
he  tore  his  fingers  more  than  once  with  the  glass-like  angles  of- the  new 
and  sharp-cut  ciystallino  basalt  fractures. 

At  last,  however,  by  almost  superhuman  efforts  of  Eastern  agility  he 
gained  tlw  top,  then  leaning  over  the  edge,  and  pulling  at  his  impro- 
^'ised  calico  rope,  he  lifted  the  helmet  carefully  to  the  top,  and,  to  his 
profound  joy,  succeeded  at  last  in  raising  it  the  whole  way  without  once 
spilling  it.  The  absence  of  sage-brush,  which  had  proved  so  dangerous 
an  obstacle  in  climbing,  turned  out  a  distinct  advantage  here  ;  for 
the  helmet  or  the  cord  would  have  got  hopelessly  entangled  and  con- 
fused on  its  way  up  among  the  branching  bushes.  But  when  at  length, 
all  peril  over,  he  stood  upon  the  summit,  safe  and  sound,  though  bruised 
and  bleeding  from  a  hundred  scratches,  with  that  precious  stock  of  fat 
held  securely  in  his  hands,  and  the  liijuid  beef  tea  clasped  hard  in  his 
coat  pocket,  he  felt  the  swelling  pride  of  a  successful  general  who  has 
brought  his  men  in  good  order  through  a  dangerous  retreat  from  some 
untenable  position.  An  army,  they  say,  fights  upon  its  stomach. 
Mohammad  Ali,  engaged  in  bitter  conflict  with  the  wily  desert,  his 
anceitnJ  foe,  felt  the  f uU  force  of  that  profouiid  mvUio  m  be  guod 


230  THE  devil's  die. 

with  long  and  loving  looks  at  the  luscious  lumps  of  round  raw  marrow. 
Fat  without  bread  or  meat  is  poor  food,  indeed,  in  a  Belgravian  dining- 
room  ;  but  one  learns  to  appreciate  its  sterling  good  points  after  two 
days'  starvation  and  drought  in  an  alkali  desert. 

And  now  came  the  final  absorbing  question,  how  to  find  his  way  back 
to  Ivan.  That  was  not  so  easy  a  problem  by  any  means  as  it  looked 
at  first  sight.  Mohammad  Ali  had  a  general  idea  of  the  direction  in 
which  he  had  tottered  and  staggered  last  night  to  the  brink  of  the 
ravine  ;  that  sense,  too,  ran  innate  in  his  Arab  blood  ;  but  he  couldn't 
see  the  handkerchief  tied  to  the  bush  anywhere  ;  and,  indeed,  it  began 
to  strike  him  now  that  a  white  handkerchief  formed  but  a  poor  land- 
mark in  the  midst  of  all  that  white  alkaline  upland.  But  still  he  toiled 
on,  in  the  general  direction  where  he  thought  Ivan  might  finally  be 
found,  on  the  bare  chance  of  spotting  at  last  that  fluttering  white  rag 
upon  the  grey  sage-bushes.  He  would  have  walked  till  he  dropped  in 
search  of  Ivan  ;  it  was  all  on  earth  he  had  now  to  live  for. 

He  wandered  on  a  long  way,  halloaing  now  and  again  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  and  gazing  around  him  for  ev*  r  eagerly,  but  saw  no  sign  of 
Ivan  anywhere.  How  he  wished  he  had  his  revolver  in  his  pocket 
with  him  ;  he  might  have  fired  it  off  in  the  air  to  attract  his  friend  ; 
and  Ivan  would  then  have  answered,  if  answer  he  could  ;  but  Ivan 
had  wrested  it  from  him  last  night — that  ^'last  night"  that  seemed 
whole  weeks  and  ^ears  away  already.  No  echo  came  to  all  hia  cries, 
and  he  was  nearly  worn  out  with  tramping,  and  searching  when  he  at 
last  espied  on  a  distant  bush  the  long  looked-for  handkerchief  of  his 
earnest  prayers.  It  fluttered  still  upon  the  big  clump  of  sage  ;  and  a 
dark  object  lay  stretched  at  full  length  upon  the  hot  and  baking  sand 
beside  it — ominously  still  and  flat,  the  object.  With  a  sinking  heart, 
Mohammad  Ali  approached  it. 

He  struggled  up  to  the  spot,  bare-headed,  under  that  fierce  sun, 
with  the  helmet  in  his  hands,  and  saw  as  he  neared  it  a  sight  that 
froze  for  a  moment  the  very  blood  in  his  veins  after  all  those  manifold 
terrora  and  perils.  Ivan  Royle's  body  lay  helpless  on  its  back  upon 
the  bare  ground,  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  scorching  sun,  with  gaunt  and 
pallid  face  upturned  to  the  sky,  and  eyes  staring  wide  with  ghastly 
glaziness  in  the  face  of  heaven.  The  look  of  those  eyes,  upen  but 
sightless,  on  the  bare  desert,  moved  Mohammad  Ali  at  last  to  floods 
of  tears.  Ivan  was  dead,  then,  and  all  was  up.  He  had  come  too  late. 
It  was  useless  now.  The  game  was  played  ;  the  hand  was  lost.  He 
might  lie  down  at  last  himself  and  die  in  peace.  There  was  nothing 
left  any  longer  to  fight  about. 

Olwen  I  Olwen  I  Poor  hopeless  Olwen  i  What  would  ahe  do  with* 
out  •ither  of  them,  he  wondared. 


VHB  DETIL'l  Dili  S31 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

He  flung  himself  down,  cross-legged,  on  the  desert  soil.  He,  th« 
eon  of  the  desert,  could  bear  its  hardships,  and  ride  them  down  as  a 
slim  ship  rides  down  by  her  very  lightness  the  heavy  seas  of  the  broad 
Atlantic.  But  Ivan  Royle,  stouter  of  build,  yet  less  wiry  and  tenacious 
of  frame  for  all  that,  had  sunk  before  them  as  a  great  galleon  sinks 
and  founders  under  her  own  weight  in  the  trough  of  the  ocean  durmg 
some  wild  and  frantic  tropical  cyclone.  Mohammad  Ali  bent  over  him, 
breathless.  The  Englishman's  eyes  were  open  wide,  and  his  jaw  had 
fallen  as  in  the  throes  of  death.  The  tongue  within  protruded,  dry 
like  leather.  He  seemed  emacited  and  desiccated  by  the  warping  wind 
already.  So  strange  a  change  was  miraculous  in  the  time.  The  Indian 
knelt  down  and  listened  at  his  heart.  Oh,  Allah  !  Allah  !  it  was  beat- 
ing yet  1  There  was  still  life  I  there  was  still  hope  !  The  machine 
was  at  work,  however  feebly.  It  needed  only  fresh  fuel  for  the  furnace 
to  set  it  going  anew.  Mohammad  Ali,  wild  with  joy,  unscrewed  the 
top  of  the  flask  and  dropped  a  few  drops  of  the  precious  liquor  upon 
the  parched  tongue.  Ivan's  throat  clicked  conclusively,  and  swallowed 
them  down  with  an  eager  gulp.  Thank  God  !  thank  God  1  he  might 
yet  live.  He  could  feel,  he  could  swallow.  Ali  might  save  him  after 
all  for  01  wen. 

Drop  by  drop,  the  devoted  black  man  poured  the  precious  liquor 
down  his  friend's  throat ;  and  slowly,  as  the  moisture  and  food  revived 
him,  Ivan  Royle's  eyes  began  to  close,  and  then,  after  a  long  and  doubt- 
ful interval,  to  open  again  with  life  and  vision  once  more  restored  to 
them.  All  day  long  Ali  watched  and  tended  him  ;  hour  by  hour  he 
came  to  himself  again;  and  by  nightfall  Ivan  had  recovered  marvellously. 
Of  course,  he  was  still  very  weak  and  footsore  ;  but  the  natural  beef 
tea  and  the  rich  fat  gave  him  strength  rapidly,  beyond  anything  he 
could  have  conceived  of  as  possible  ;  and,  by  the  cool  of  the  evening, 
he  was  once  more  in  a  condition  to  renew  for  a  while  their  painful 
march.  By  that  time  they  had  eaten  the  greater  part  of  their  little 
store  of  provender  ;  but  they  felt  sure  the  prairie  could  not  bo  f.ir  dis- 
tant, and  they  hoped  against  hope  that  they  might  still  reach  it. 

"  Let's  try  the  canyon,"  Ali  suggested,  as  they  were  preparing  to 
start.  *'  The  rock  there  would  be  easier  than  this  horrible  sand  ;  and 
there's  no  alkali  underfoot  at  least,  though  it  blows  about,  of  course, 
in  the  air.  Besides,  the  very  sound  of  what  seems  like  water  trickling 
over  the  stones  does  one  good  to  hear.  It  makes  one  think  one's  near- 
ing  England." 

Slowly  and  painfully,  picking  their  way  with  care  over  the  burning 
alkaline  soil,  they  approached  the  edge  of  the  deep  canyon  while  it 
WM  atiU  dusk,  and  scrambled  down  by  the  same  practicable  cleft  which 


883  TBS  DBTtL's  DIB. 

All  Iftwi  chosen  for  the  ftscent  that  morning.  The  gap  was  wider  now, 
All  noticed  to  his  surprisie,  in  the  same  casual  way  as  he  had  remarked 
its  freshness  and  newness  on  his  first  visit ;  and  even  Ivan,  enfeebled 
*nd  weary  as  he  was,  looking  close  at  the  sharp  and  jagijed  edges,  re- 
marked to  his  friend  as  they  reached  the  bottom,  *'  That's  new  earth- 
quake work  ;  1  know  it's  character  well  by  sight.  The  mountain  earth- 
quakes always  rend  the  basalt  like  that.  This  o'^e  seems  to  be  quite 
recent.     It  must  have  been  done  within  forty-eight  hours." 

On  the  dry  bed  of  the  canyon,  where  they  walked  along,  everything 
now  seemed  safe  enough.  The  rock  under  foot  was  solid  and  smooth, 
though  so  strewn  with  boulders  from  time  to  time  that  they  picked 
their  way  among  them  in  places  with  difficulty.  They  were  walking 
indeed,  on  the  abandoned  course  of  some  mighty  river  which  bad  worn 
the  basalt  smooth  as  a  pavement,  and  cut  down  its  channel  as  straight 
and  naked  as  a  deep  railway  cutting  through  high  sandstone  hills.  At 
first  the  twilight  and  starlight  alone  served  to  render  the  deep  gloom 
of  that  profound  gorge  into  darkness  visible.  They  could  just  disting- 
uish the  great  dim  rift  of  heaven  over  head,  and  pick  their  way,  more 
by  groping  than  by  sight,  among  the  huge  boulders  that  strewed  their 
path  under  foot. 

After  four  hours'  weary  march,  as  Ivan  was  beginning  to  grow  almosfc 
faint  and  weak  with  fatigue  again,  they  found  themselves  suddenly  in 
new  surroundings — the  canyon  debouched,  without  warning  or  grada- 
tion, on  a  flat  and  level  shelf  of  open  tableland.  They  emerged  at 
once  upon  a  wide  plain.  Behind  them  a  terrace  of  bare  black  rock  rose 
high  like  a  wall,  the  terrace  through  whose  midst  the  canyon  was  exca- 
vated In  front  a  sacond  terrace  stretched  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  less, 
and  then  descended  by  a  similar  step  into  the  prairie  below.  The  whole 
country,  in  fact,  for  miles  around  was  composed  of  successive  flights 
or  ledges  of  rocks,  esch  of  which  ended  abrubtly  in  a  steep  precipice, 
while  the  last  abutted  at  length  on  the  general  level  of  the  Mississipi 
basin.  The  ledge  at  which  they  had  now  arrived  was  the  final  step  of 
that  vast  natural  scale  or  flight  of  mountain  stairs  ;  below  them,  at  its 
end,  in  dim  perspective  lay  the  prairie  lowland — the  goal  of  their 
utmost  endeavour. 

That  sight  once  more  revived  their  flagging  hopes.  Within  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  of  them  lay  the  longed-for  prairie.  Where  there  is  mairie 
there  there  is  grass  ;  and  where  there  is  grass,  there  there  is  water. 
Y«.t,  even  so,  they  could  push  on  no  further  without  a  short  spell  of  rest 
Hiidsleep.  They  grasped  one  another's  hands  once  more  in  ferventthank- 
f  ulnesB,  and  lay  down  silently  on  the  bare  rock  to  recruit  their  shattered 
Btrungih  for  that  final  eflbrt.  All  might  now  be  well.  The  desert  was 
done  ;  the  open  prairie  lay  broad  in  front  of  them. 

When  they  woke  again  it  was  nearly  sunrise,  and  hope  streamed 
from  the  lighted  east  ;.^ainst  the  grim  gaunt  walls  of  rearing  rock 
l/ohind  them.  The  two  men  rose  from  their  bare  couch  and  journeyed 
I'll,  hungry  and  thirsty  once  more,  to  the  precipitous  edge  of  that  laat 
plateau. 

Weary  and  footsore  as  they  were,  it  took  them  more  tbaa  half  an 


THS  setil's  dis.  233 

hour  to  cover  the  quarter  mile  that  lay  between  themselves  and  the  last 
ledge.  But  when  they  reached  it,  from  its  brink  they  looked  down 
with  delight  once  more  upon  green  grass  and  bright  flowers.  The 
country  must  be  sometimes,  at  least,  visited  with  rains,  or  herbage  like 
that  could  never  grow  upon  it.  A  few  minutes  now  would  bring  them 
out  of  their  trouble.  They  were  fairly  free  from  the  rainless  belt. 
They  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  lush  green  prairie.  Hurrah  !  hurrah  I 
Their  troubles  were  over.  That  night  they  should  sleep  on  the  grassy 
prairie. 

Mohammad  Ali  clutched  his  friend's  arm  eagerly.  *'  See,  Ivan,  see  I" 
he  cried  in  wild  excitement.  "  What's  that  down  there  ? — do  you  see 
yonder,  in  the  valley  of  the  stream  we've  followed  from  the  canyon  ?  " 

Ivan  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  wearily,  for  the  sun  was  now 
rising,  and  they  were  looking  due  eastward.  Its  beams  fell  upon  a 
group  of  white  objects  that  filled  the  dale  in  the  near  foreground. 
Ivan's  lips  trembled  for  joy.  *'  A  town  1  a  town  1 "  he  cried  with  trem- 
ulous eagerness. 

Yes,  yes,  it  was  a  town — a  real  town.  No  doubt  about  that.  A 
town  with  all  genuine  civilized  appliances.  Not  a  mere  lodge  in  the 
wilderness,  like  the  mining  camps  ;  not  a  den  of  thieves  like  Eagle 
City  ;  but  a  regular  town  with  streets  and  houses,  and  church,  and 
public  buildings — all  of  them  wooden,  indeed,  but  some  of  them  far 
from  unpretentious  in  their  way, — a  town  of  the  best  far-prairie  order. 
It  was  an  oil-well  city,  Ivan  saw  at  a  glance  ;  for  the  place  was  full  of  , 
the  big  gaunt  derricks  that  always  accompany  the  petroleum  industry. 
Nay,  there  was  even  a  branch  railroad  or  tramway  across  the  plain 
beyond  ;  they  were  again  well  in  touch  with  advanced  civilisation. 
That  railway  must  somewhere  join  the  main  line  of  the  Union  Pacific  ; 
it  must  convey  the  oil  from  the  flourishing  outpost  they  beheld  before 
them  to  the  warehouses  of  Omaha  or  to  Salt  Lake  City. 

Saved,  saved,  they  were  saved  at  last !  In  an  hour  or  two  more 
they  should  rest  on  abed — they  should  eat  and  drink  among  civilized 
and  kind-hearted  fellow-creatures.  The  revulsion  was  almtjst  too  much 
for  their  shattered  nerves.  It  blinded  and  chilled  them  with  excess  of 
happiness. 

An  oil-well  settlement  on  the  brink  of  tile  prairie  1  How  lucky  they 
had  followed  the  canyon  and  the  petroleum  stream  I  The  petroleum 
stream  must  supply  the  town  with  the  oil  for  export.     And  yet — 

A  strange  doubt  flitted  before  them. 

How  curious,  since  the  stream  was  there,  flowing  free  to  all,  there 
should  be  all  those  derricks  and  all  that  complicated  expensive  machin- 
ery for  pumping  and  raising  the  oil  to  the  surface.  For  a  moment  the 
apparent  contradiction  of  fact  startled  and  puzzled  Mohammad  Ali. 
Then  he  suddenly  remembered  the  newness  of  the  stream,  and  the 
obvious  evidence  of  recent  earthiiuake  action.  Till  the  day  before 
yestiOrday,  the  bed  of  the  canyon  had  long  been  dry.  The  oil  had  only 
begun  to  flow  from  its  subterranean  bed  after  the  shock  of  earthquake. 
Doubtless  the  derricks  would  now  be  useless.  Mature  herself  wm 
pumping  up  the  oil  under  altered  circunistaucea, 


234  THB  DETIL'iB  DIS. 

As  they  climbed  down,  step  by  step, with  infinite  fatip^ue  and  parched 
throats,  longing  for  that  promised  treat  of  water,  Mohammad  Ali  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  all  the  time  upon  the  houses  in  front  of  them.  Suddenly 
a  cry  of  wild  surprise  burst  from  his  lips.  It  was  a  cry  of  fresh  and 
terrible  doubt. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  Ivan  asked,  astonished  at  this  unexpected 
and  curious  revulsion  from  their  supreme  delight  of  the  last  few 
moments. 

Ali  clutched  his  friend's  arm  a  second  time  nervously.  "  Matter  ! " 
he  cried.  '*0h,  Ivan,  Ivan  !  Why,  what's  the  meaning  of  this  ?  can 
you  tell  me  ?    There's  no  gmoke  coming  from  any  of  the  chimneys." 

Ivan  gazed  hard  and  then  turned  round  on  him  incredulouoly.  **  It 
must  be  too  early,"  he  said,  with  a  falling  face.  **  None  of  the  fires 
are  lighted  by  this  time." 

Mohammad  Ali  shook  his  head  in  unspeakable  alarm.  *'  No,  no  !  " 
he  cried  ;  "  that  won't  account  for  it.  Some  people  would  be  up  and 
stirring  long  ago.  There's  always  fire  soon  after  sunrise.  I  see  what 
it  is,  Ivan.     It's  a  deserted  city  !  " 

The  tin-covered  roofs  glistened  and  shone  in  the  dazzling  sun  ;  the 
praire  smiled  with  grass  and  fiowers  below  them  ;  the  distant  view 
shimmered  in  the  morning  light ;  but  it  was  with  heavy  hearts  that 
those  two  weary  and  thirsty  men  turned  again  to  descend  ftt  last  upon 
the  wished-for  level. 

Their  dream  was  gone.    It  was  an  unpeopled  desert  I 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

At  home  in  England,  the  red  clifla  of  Polperran,  that  summer  mom« 
ing,  rose  above  the  clear  green  pools  at  their  base,  as  jagged  and  rosy  and 
beautiful  as  ever.  Nature  obstinately  refuses  to  suit  herself  to  our 
moods.  She  was  joyous  and  bright  and  clear  that  day,  as  if  Harry 
Chichele  had  never  died.  Seeta  Mayne,  wandering  along  the  cliffs  by 
the  zigzag  path,  with  Olwen  at  her  side,  looked  out  to  sea  and  sighed 
and  wondered  ;  for  the  sea  was  banded  green  and  purple  ;  and  Olwen — 
Olwen  was  almost  herself  again. 

But  all  the  world  was  dull  and  grey  to  Seeta. 

**  Mohammad  Ali  has  been  gone  a  very  long  time,"  Olwen  murmured 
quietly,  as  she  sat  down  on  a  rock  upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff — that  cliff 
where  she  had  once  sat  so  happy  and  blithe  with  the  Harry  that  was 
not  and  had  never  been.  ^*  I  wish  he  was  back  again.  I  do  like 
Ali.  He's  such  a  nice  fellow.  Of  course,  1  love  you  too,  dearly,  you 
know  darling  ;  but  I  can't  say  how  it  is,  in  these  last  days — ever  since 
ihat^  you  kuuw— whutev^r  if  wm— I  <l9ro«h9W  ff^l  •!  II I  oould  neyw 


THB  devil's  Dia  335 

have  people  enough  at  my  side,  as  if  I  wanted  every  one  of  all  my 
friends  always  about  mo^  and  quite,  quite  close  to  me,  to  guard  and 
protect  me.' 

"  Ever  since  what  ?  "  Seeta  ventured  to  ask,  turning  her  eyes  full 
upon  her  friend,  with  that  great  hunger  still  gnawing  forever  at  her 
broken  heart. 

*'  Ever  since  theny"  Olwen  answered,  hesitating.  **  I  don't  remem- 
ber what  it  all  was,  of  course,  Seeta  ;  but  I  somehow  recollect  in  a  sort 
of  dim  uncertain  way  that  something  terrible  once  happened — when  I 
was  tirst  ill,  you  remember— before  we  all  came  back  home  here  to 
Polperran.  Why  did  we  ever  leave  Polperran  at  all,  I  wonder  ? 
Why  did  we  all  go  and  live  in  that  dreadful  frightening  London  ? " 

She  looked  up  into  Seeta's  face  with  a  strange,  anxious,  inquiring 
glance — a  glance  that  showed  at  once  how  all  her  mind  was  puzzled 
and  clouded  with  an  inexplicable  mystery.  She  was  trying  hard  in 
her  futile  way  to  pull  together  the  threads  of  that  obliterated  passage 
in  her  shattered  life.  But  the  great  blot  and  gap  in  her  brain  stUl 
seemed  to  intervene  and  blur  it  all.  There  was  a  terrible  and  persis- 
tent lacuna  somewhere.  All  the  threads  of  memory  appeared  to  hang 
together  and  cohere  perfectly,  till  she  came  to  that  great  central  fact  of 
all ;  and  there,  her  whole  previous  life  escaped  her  utterly,  and  vanish- 
ed into  a  blank  of  infinite  misgivings.  Thread  after  thread  led  back 
to  it  separately  ;  the  blank  was  interwoven  with  the  whole  knitted 
fabric  of  her  mind  and  being  ;  but  by  a  rare,  though  by  no  means 
unique,  accident,  she  had  recovered  sense  and  thought  and  memory 
elsewhere,  while  that  central  fact  and  keystone  of  the  whole  of  her 
nature  remained  involved  for  her  still  in  impenetrable  mystery. 

Olwen  looked  at  her,  with  tears,  again.  *'  Seeta,"  she  cried 
piteously,  '*  explain  it  all  to  me.  I  know  you  know.  I  know  you 
could  tell  me.  I'm  sui'e,  if  you  did,  I  should  recall  it  all.  Seeta,  dear 
Seeta,  do,  do  explain  it  to  me  I " 

Seeta  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  The  memory  of  Harry  seemed 
to  her  so  precious,  so  earnest,  so  sacred  almost,  that  she  could  scarcely 
bear  to  talk  of  him  to  the  wife  who  had  clean  forgotten  all  about 
him.  She  only  murmured  in  a  low  voice,  "  It  would  do  you  no  good, 
dear.  You  can't  understand.  Oh,  Olwen,  it  grieves  me  to  think  about 
it." 

Olwen  sat  down  upon  a  jutting  rock,  and  began  to  cry  bitterly  like 
the  child  she  was.  "Seeta,"  she  said  again,  **do,  do  try  to  tell  me. 
1  know  I  ought  always  to  be  crying  and  grieving.  I  know  there's 
something  I  ought  to  be  sad  about.  I  feel  it  myself,  and  I  know  it's 
expected  of  me.  And,  somewhere  in  my  heart,  I  have  such  a  terrible 
pain,  a  pain  as  if  my  life  were  all  broken  and  shattered.  I  remember 
there  was  somebody  or  something  somewhere  I  used  to  think  and 
dream  a  great  deal  about ;  and  yet  it's  all  gone  right  from  me.  What 
can  I  do  ?    How  can  I  remember  it  1 " 

Seeta's  hand  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf,  and  her  breast  heaved  and 
fell  convulsively.  She  was  sure  Mohammad  All  would  not  hav« 
^eappiMv;;^,  aod  jet  she  coulia't  help  suggesting  an  idee  to  Olweu. 


236  THK   DBVtL'8   DI8. 

••  Darling,"  she  said,  leaning  over  her  like  aaistet,  "  don't  you  reinem- 
bor  anything — about  Harry." 

At  the  word,  01  wen  grew  deadly  pale.  She  didn't  cry;  she  didn't  faint; 
•he  didn't  speak.  She  remembered  nothing — nothing  evidently.  The 
name  recalled  to  her,  not  her  love,  her  loss,  lier  married  life,her  maiden 
fancy — but  the  great  terror  of  the  room  in  Queen  Anne's  Road,  where 
slie  had  seen  and  heard  that  appalling  vision.  She  shrank  back  with 
a  sudden  gesture  of  fear  and  alarm.  Something  within  her  seemed  to 
shake  her  soul  to  its  inmost  foundations.  The  blank  arose  again,  in 
bodily  form,  blanker  and  emptier  and  more  mysterious  than  ever. 
She  gazed  around  with  a  vacant  stare,  and  held  out  her  arms  as  if  to 
keep  herself  from  falling.  Then  she  rose,  and  tottered  to  the  edge  of 
the  cliff.  The  solid  earth  seemed  to  melt  between  her  feet.  She 
staggered  and  fell,  as  if  the  entire  fabric  of  visible  and  tangible  things  had 
utterly  failed  her.  Seeta  caught  her,  trembling,  in  her  arras,  or  she 
would  have  fallen  where  she  stood  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 

"My  darling,"  the  elder  woman  cried,  repentant  of  the  trial  to 
which  she  had  put  the  shrinking  girl,  '*  I  ought  never  to  have  told  you  I 

I  ought  never  to  have  tried  you  1    But  for  my  own  love's  sake " 

and  she  paused,  terrified  at  her  own  rash  outspokenness. 

But  Oiwen  sat  down  again,  as  in  a  serious  relapse,  and  folded  her 
hands  resignedly  before  her.  She  sat  there  long,  and  Seeta,  terrified, 
hardly  dared  to  speak  or  to  rouse  her  from  her  lethargy.  At  last  she 
rose  of  herself  to  go.  Seeta  held  her  hand  tight  in  her  own.  They 
walked  back  in  silence  to  the  gate  of  the  rectory.  Then;  with  a  sudden, 
reminder,  Olwen  smiled.  *'  Do  you  think  Ivan  Royle  will  come  back 
soon  ? "  she  asked  in  her  simple,  childish  voice,  aa  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

A  fierce  revulsion  of  feeling  seized  on  Seeta.  She  rushed  into  th© 
house,  and  leaving  Olwen  to  her  own  mind,  flung  herself  down  on  the 
drawing-room  sofa,  with  eyes  and  eyelids  all  too  hard  and  dry  for  weep- 
ing. It  was  slow  torture,  this  sight  of  01  wen's  incomprehensible  terror 
and  forgetfuluess.  That  Harry  should  have  been  blotted  out  of  her 
brain  entirely  was  in  itself  quite  horrible  enough  ;  but  that  she  should 
speak  and  think  of  Ivan  Royle  instead,  with  such  an  abiding  affection, 
was  ten  thousand  times  worse — it  was  sheer  blasphemy. 

The  Times  lay  open  on  the  table  by  her  side.  Her  aching  eyes,  too 
hot  and  bursting  for  the  relief  of  tears,  fell  upon  it  accidentally,  with- 
out marking  the  words,  "Ivan  Royle"  and  "Harry  Chichele."  It 
seemed  quite  natural  to  see  them  there  in  print,  her  whole  mind  was  so 
wholly  preoccupied  with  them.  And  "  Mohammad  Ali,"  quite  natural 
too  ;  Seeta  hardly  noticed  the  occurrence  of  the  names  as  anything 
unusual.  "  Mr.  Ivan  Royle,  the  well-known  artist,  and  Dr.  Moham- 
mad Ali,  the  Indian  Mussulman  physician,  so  famous  for  the  part  which 
he  shared  with  the  late  Dr.  H.  Chichele  in  the  investigation  of  the 
minute  germs  of  zymotic  diseases. " 

The  letters  conveyed  no  meaning  to  her  mind.  Her  eyes  fell  upon 
them  once  and  again  mechanically.  She  looked  and  read  and  never 
realijsod  their  tru«  import.    * '  The  Catastrophe  in  America.    Latest  Tele- 


TBI  DSVIL'S  DIB.  SS7 

frams.*'     It  didn't  interest  her,  and  she  torned  to  moodily  toood 
once  more  upon  her  own  unspeakable  internal  agony. 

Again  she  looked,  mechanically  still  ;  and  her  eyes  chanced  to  fall 
upon  the  leaded  heading. 

**  Death  of  Mr.  Ivan  Royle,  the  well-known  artist. — It  is  now  qnite 
certain  that  Mr.  Ivan  Royle  was  among  the  victims ** 

Ivan  Royle  among  the  victims  ?  Victims  of  what  ?  That  strange 
announcement,  at  last  coming  home  to  her,  arrested  Seeta's  attention 
even  in  her  present  distressed  and  excited  condition.  He  was  her  own 
cousin  ;  what  could  it  mean  ?  She  took  up  the  paper  and  read  the 
whole  passage  with  profound  astonishment.  It  ran  somehow  thus,  in 
the  modern  bald  telegraphic  brevity  of  journalistic  dispatches  : — 

' '  The  Earthquakes  in  America.  (From  Our  Own  Correspondent) 
New  York,  July  10. — Further  accounts  from  Petroleum  Qulch,  Nov., 
state  that  the  earthquake  that  recently  visited  that  town  has  engulfed 
almost  the  entire  area  of  Eagle  City,  with  the  greater  part  of  the 
inhabitants,  few  of  whom  have  been  able  to  escape.  It  is  surmised  that 
among  the  dead  were  Mr.  Ivan  Royle,  the  well-known  artist,  and  Dr. 
Mohammad  Ali,  the  Indian  Mussulman  physician,  famous  for  the  part 
which  he  shared  with  the  late  Dr.  H.  Chichele  in  the  investigation  of 
the  minute  germs  of  zymotic  diseases. " 

"  Later.— Denver,  Colorado  ;  July  11. — It  is  now  quite  certain  that 
Mr.  Ivan  Royle  was  among  the  victims  buried  in  the  ruins  of  Eagle 
City,  Nevada,  overwhelmed  by  the  recent  earthquake.  Colonel  J.  J. 
Ridley,  of  Petroleum  Gulch,  a  gentleman  well  known  in  sporting  circles 
west  of  the  Mississippi,  and  one  of  the  few  survivers  from  the  Sunset 
Lode  catastrophe,  has  just  arrived  in  this  city  from  the  devastated 
scene  of  the  recent  disaster.  He  claims  to  have  spoken  with  Mr.  Royle 
and  a  gentleman  of  Hindoo  blood  (confidently  identified  with  Dr.  Mo- 
hammad Ali)  in  the  doomed  town  on  the  morning  preceding  the  fatal 
convulsion.  Both  gentlemen  are  now  missing,  and  it  is  probable  that 
their  remains  might  be  found  on  search  among  the  debris  of  the  fallen 
settlement.  The  few  survivors,  however,  have  fled  the  spot,  and  there 
is  no  liklihood  that  any  excavations  will  be  made  at  the  scene  of  the 
disaster.  It  is  believed  that  in  all  parts  of  the  territory  over  four 
hundred  lives  have  been  sacrificed  in  this  sad  calamity." 

Seeta  laid  down  the  paper  in  an  agony  of  alarm.  At  all  costs,  the 
terrible  news  must  be  kept  from  Olwen.  Ivan  Royle  and  Mohammad 
Ali  dead  at  once  I  How  the  very  elements  of  nature  seemed  to  be 
fighting  against  them  !  Poor  Ali  1  He  was  so  good,  so  true,  so  tender, 
BO  devoted  !  Now  tliat  he  was  gone,  Seata  felt  she  should  miss  him. 
As  for  Ivan,  she  cared  far  less  for  that.  The  shock  came  to  her  as  ft 
shock  alone.  Olwen's  unnatural  liking  for  the  man  who  seemed  by 
some  strange  chance  to  have  usurped  Harry's  place  in  her  feeble  littM 
mind  had  succeeded  in  making  Seeta  almost  lukte  him.  At  best,  now* 
•ke  oould  only  grudgingly  forgive  Ivab* 


938  THB  DEVIL'S  DUL 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

In  the  Far  West,  ifc  was  drier  and  drearier.  From  the  base  of  the 
ledge,  where  the  plateau  fell  to  the  prairie  level,  Mohammad  Ali  and 
Ivan  toiled  slowly  onward  across  the  open  plain  to  the  town  of  oil-wells 
they  had  descried  through  the  morning  haze  from  the  summit.  At  the 
foot  of  the  steep  wall  of  rock,  a  path  led  by  a  straight  course  toward 
the  wooden  town — a  path  clearly  trodden  out  by  human  footsteps,  and 
with  ruts  beside  it,  worn  into  the  soil,  that  marked  the  passage  of  rude 
cart-wheels.  But  Ivan  and  Ali  noticed  with  dismay  as  they  went  that 
the  trail  had  not  been  used  for  many  years,  or  months  at  least ;  coarse 
weeds  and  knot-grasses  grew  over  it  freely,  and  dry  desert  vegetation 
occupied  the  deep  ruts  by  tlie  long  disused  and  abandoned  wayside. 
Nor  was  the  prairie  itself  so  enticing  or  so  gay  on  nearer  view  as  it  had 
seemed  when  observed  at  a  distance  from  above.  The  grass  was  arid, 
coarse,  and  stringey  ;  the  soil  beneath  gaped  wide  with  thirsty  chinks  ; 
and  the  bright  flowers,  that  looked  from  afar  so  fresh  and  brilliant, 
proved  at  close  quarters  to  be  mostly  hard  and  papery  everlastings  of 
various  dingy  and  desert  colours.  It  was  only  too  clear  that  though 
they  had  passed  the  absolutely  rainless  region,  they  were  still  within 
the  district  of  occasional  stray  showers  alone  ;  and  a  great  draught 
must  long  have  reigned  over  the  whole  area  of  the  surrounding  country. 
No  sign  of  water  yet  gladdened  their  eyes.  All  around  lay  dry  and 
dusty,  with  a  draught  and  dustiness  like  the  sage-brush  and  the  desert 
they  had  just  left  behind  them. 

Half  a  mile  from  the  base  of  the  ledge,  as  they  toiled  onward  pain- 
fully  in  grim  silence,  too  depressed  and  too  disheartened  even  to  speak 
to  one  another,  they  came  suddenly  across  a  bend  of  the  little  railway 
which  they  had  recognized  with  such  joy  from  the  height  above.  As 
they  neared  the  track,  all  hope  died  down  utterly  in  their  minds.  It 
was  no  railway,  no  line  at  all  ;  but  the  mere  skeleton  and  relic  of  a  dis- 
used system.  The  rails  themselves  had  all  been  torn  up,  and  the  very 
sleepers  were  in  great  part  removed.  The  town  was  gone  and  all  that 
belonged  to  it.  They  plodded  thenceforth,  with  sinking  hearts,  along 
that  grass-grown  wreck  of  their  highest  hopes,  the  rest  of  their  way  to 
the  phantom  city. 

At  last  they  reached  it.  It  was  a  town  indeed,  with  streets  and 
houses  still  standing  in  long  lines,  but  as  dead  and  as  desolate  as  the 
sage-brush  from  which  they  had  just  escaped  with  so  much  difficulty. 
No  sound  of  life  echoed  from  its  highways.  Coarse  weeds  grew  rank 
and  tall  in  the  roads.  On  either  hand  the  houses  stood  silent,  bare, 
and  deserted.  The  town  had  clearly  been  abandoned,  once  and  for  all, 
at  a  single  stroke,  by  every  living  soul  among  its  inhabitants.  They 
had  gone  away  en  masse.,  the  wayfarers  could  see,  taking  with  the  m 
•Terything  that  could  be  moved  or  carried. 


THE  devil's  DIB.  289 

The  two  men,  dying  with  hunger  and  thirst  and  fatigue,  tottered 
feebly  together  up  the  main  street  of  that  deserted  town,  and  sat  down 
at  last,  too  dreary  to  speak,  even  if  their  parched  tongues  would  have 
answered  to  their  wills,  on  the  tumble-down  wooden  steps  of  a  disman- 
tled grocery  store. 

They  were  as  far  off  from  the  real  world  as  ever.  Men  had  tried  tc 
live  in  that  spot  and  failed.  There  was  no  food,  there  was  no  water. 
No  water  I  Mohammad  Ali  started  eagerly  to  his  feet.  They  must 
have  had  water.  They  must  have  laid  it  on  from  tanks  or  reservoirs 
or  mountain  torrents  somewhere.  There  can  be  no  town  without  a 
water  supply.  He  entered  the  shop  on  whose  steps  the^  sat  by  its 
doorless  gap.  Counter  and  shelves  still  remained  in  their  place,  bub 
not  a  canister  or  a  box  upon  the  bare  frames  anywhere.  He  went 
behind  into  the  empty  living-rooms.  There  was  a  kitchen  and  a  sink 
at  the  rear  of  the  house.  Above  the  sink — oh  1  glorious,  a  tap.  His 
eyes  glistened.  It  was  dry  and  rusty,  but  might  still  be  of  use.  He 
turned  the  tap  with  a  sharp  wrench.  Disappointment  once  more  ;  it 
gave  slowly  on  its  rusted  axis  ;  it  was  dry,  dry  ;  not  a  drop  of  water. 
Mohammad  Ali  hurried  into  the  next  house.  He  wrenched  with  diffi- 
culty another  rusty  tap.  Again  no  water.  It  was  dry  and  old.  What- 
ever the  water  supply  might  have  been  it  had  failed  by  this  time,  at 
least  in  the  houses.  Mohammad  Ali  returned  once  more  with  weary 
eyes  to  his  starving  friend.  He  shook  his  head  ominously — he  had  no 
heart  to  speak — and  sat  down  to  die  in  despair  beside  hir ,. 

They  might  have  sat  there  and  waited  till  they  died,  so  dispirited 
and  despondent  were  they  at  this  final  collapse  of  their  last  hope,  had 
not  something  suddenly  stirred  all  at  once  in  a  house  opposite  theuL 
The  doors  and  windows  were  gone  there  too,  and,  peeping  round  the 
lintel,  Mohammad  Ali  just  caught  the  stealthy  eyes  of  what  in  India 
he  would  have  taken  for  a  jackal,  but  which  in  the  American  prairie  he 
judged  rather  to  be  the  coyote  of  the  country.  Astonished  at  the  sights 
he  leaped  up  hastily,  and  crossed  the  road.  The  skulking  beast  bunt- 
ing away  in  terror,  rushed  headlong  from  the  house  by  the  backway  as 
Ali  entered,  and  on  his  road  rattled  over  something  that  lay  beneath 
the  bar — for  the  house  had  been  a  saloon — and  that  sounded  like  glass 
as  it  jangled  and  clattered.  Mohammad  Ali  stepped  behind  that  empty 
and  deserted  counter  ;  then,  kneeling  down,  he  saw  four  or  five  bottles 
lying  on  the  ground,  corked  and  wired  ;  and  oh  !  joy  unspeakable,  with 
something  in  them.  He  took  one  up.  His  eyes  reeled  as  he  saw  what 
it  contained.  It  was  soda-water.  Whoever  had  left  that  house  and 
carried  off  all  that  it  contained  of  valuables,  had  not  thought  the  stuff 
worth  carrying  with  him.  To  Mohammad  Ali  it  was  more  precious 
than  diamonds.  He  pulled  off  the^  wire  with  trembling  fingers,  and 
egged  out  the  cork  by  dexterous  side  pressure.  The  soda-water  had 
parted  with  most  of  its  gas  ;  but  it  was  still  fresh  and  quite  drinkable. 
In  his  eager  joy,  he  swallowed  half  the  bottleful  at  one  long  famished 
pull,  and  returned  with  the  other  half,  brandished  aloft  in  his  jubilant 
band,  to  poor  thirsty  and  despondent  Ivan. 

Xbeir  fiod  inspired  them  like  another  repi^VQ*  Wheretlier«  inw4rwk| 


tiO  THB   DEVIL'S   DIB. 

there  might  also  be  food.  They  returned  together  to  the  house  oppo- 
Bite  and  opened  a  second  bottle  of  that  precious  drink.  It  went  down 
their  throats  with  a  feeling  like  balm.  They  counted  the  bottles.  Never 
had  anything  earthly  tasted  so  delicious.  There  were  still  three  left. 
That  was  liquid  enough  to  last  them  out  for  twenty-four  hours.  If 
only  they  had  food,  all  might  jdt  go  well  with  them.  Food,  food,  was 
now  their  chief  requirement. 

They  turned  to  ransack  the  deserted  grocery  store.  The  shelves  and 
oins  were  all  utterly  empty.  They  mounted  the  creaking,  ramshackl* 
stairs.  "  They  found  nothing  in  the  bedrooms  and  cupboards.  "  Let's 
iry  the  cellar,"  Mohammad  All  said.  They  went  down  once  more. 
And  Ivan  lighted  a  match  to  explore  its  contents.  Thank  heaven,  the 
cellar  was,  not  quite  empty.  Among  the  skeletons  of  rats  lay  two  tins 
of  preserved  lobster  and  one  can  of  California  peaches.  The  rats  had 
eaten  all  else  in  the  place  ;  but  these  three  tins  were  too  much  for  the 
teeth  of  starving  rats,  even. 

Ali  took  out  a  pocket-knife  and  opened  them  in  haste.  The  con- 
tents were  old,  stale,  and  mouldy,  but  not  uneatable.  They  swallowed 
the  whole  of  the  lobster  first,  and  then  the  peaches.  They  were  too 
hungry  for  prudent  reserve.  After  that,  they  sank  fatigued  on  the 
floor  of  the  shop,  and  silently  ruminated  over  their  strange  position. 

For  an  hour  they  lay  there  in  the  shade  of  the  empty  building,  and 
then,  to  their  immense  and  boundless  astonishment,  they  heard  human 
voices  resounding  distinctly  in  the  grass-grown  street  of  that  deserted 
city.  At  first  they  could  hardly  believe  their  ears,  but  as  they  listened 
the  voices  grew  clearer  and  clearer.  Mohammad  Ali  rushed  out  into 
the  open,  closely  followed  by  Ivan,  in  his  rags  and  tatters.  It  was 
true  I  It  was  true  1  They  were  saved  !  They  were  saved  I  Two 
covered  wagons,  drawn  by  four  stout  horses  each,  were  moving  slowly 
up  the  disused  high  street. 

With  a  loud  cry  Ali  and  Ivan  darted  forward  to  meet  them.  The 
wagons  were  large  and  full  of  men,  laughing  and  talking  in  excellent 
spirits.  They  had  evidently  come  a  long  way,  and  were  enjoying  them- 
selves in  hilarious  mirth.  JBut  at  the  sight  of  those  two  gaunt  and 
tattered  scarecrows,  wasted  and  thin  already  with  their  four  days' 
agony,  the  men  drew  up  and  looked  for  a  moment  paralyzed  with  fear, 
and  with  superstitious  astonishment.  It  was  strange  enough  to  come 
back  the  first  to  that  city  of  the  dead,  but  stranger  still  to  find  as  they 
entered  it  two  living  corpses  advance  like  ghosts  from  the  skeleton  of 
a  house  on  its  outskirts  to  greet  them.  They  seemed  like  dead  inmates 
of  a  phantom  city. 

Till  that  nioment,  indeed,  in  the  pressing  anxiety  of  their  life  and 
death  struggle,  Ali  and  Ivan  hat!  wholly  forgotten  the  weirdness  and 
strangeness  of  their  own  wil'  and  haggard  appearance.  But  in  truth, 
their  aspect  might  well  have  stonished  any  one  who  came  upon  them 
unexpectedly  in  the  grass-grown  streets  of  that  unpeopled  town.  Their 
clothes  were  ragged  and  torn  with  climbing,  and  bleached  with  the 
warping  effect  of  the  alkali ;  their  faces  and  hands  were  burnt  and 
M^Arrt^d  and  covered  with  blood  ;  their  raw  Mid  broken  knees  peeked 


THB  devil's  dii.  241 

out  uaabashed  fronsr^he  tattered  rents  in  their  dusty  trousers  ;  their 
shirts  were  grimy,  Uieir  collars  gone,  their  hair  unkempt  and  matted 
and  dirty  ;  their  eyes  were  sunken  with  )p»atching  and  sleeplessness  ; 
their  cheek  bones  protuded  almost  through  the  skin  ;  and  Ivan's  face 
was  wan  and  white  as  a  ghost's,  while  Ali's  natural  blackness  of  hue  was 
partly  hidden  by  mingled  dust  and  grime  and  grease  and  alkali.  Two 
sorrier  or  more  tottering  specimens  of  humanity  never  yet  came  forth 
to  the  light  of  day  to  greet  their  fellows.  The  men  looked  at  them, 
awe-struck  and  mystified,  for  s  single  moment ;  then,  as  soon  as  they 
had  reassured  themselves  that  these  were  really  living  breathing  human 
beings,  and  not  ghosts  or  phantoms,  as  they  seemed  at  first  sight,  they 
burst  suddenly  into  loud  peals  of  coarse  and  gay  but  by  no  means  ill- 
humoured  laughter. 

*'  Why,  boys,"  the  driver  of  the  foremost  waggon  cried  out,  address- 
ing them  jauntily,  **  you  look  as  if  you'd  been  left  behind  here  when 
the  folks  cleared  out,  and  hadn't  eaten  cr  drunk  or  cleaned  yourselves 
up  since  your  fellow-citizens  vacated  the  ranche.  What  have  you  been 
doing,  anyway,  to  get  yourselves  made  into  such  a  pair  of  scarecrows  ? 
Earthshook.  I  surmise  1    That's  so,  ain't  it,  eh,  mister  ?  " 

Mohammad  Ali  was  the  first  to  speak.  **  We've  crossed  the  desert 
from  Eagle  City,"  he  said  ;  *'  we've  been  walking,  off  and  on,  four  days 
and  nights,  without  food  or  drink,  at  least  to  speak  of,  and  now  we're 
more  than  half  famished." 

The  men  leaped  down  from  the  waggons  at  once,  and  formed  a  circlo 
commiseratingly  around  them.  "Run  away  from  Eagle  City?"  the 
first  speaker  asKed,  with  evident  interest.  *'  Scar't  by  the  earthquake 
over  thar,  I  reckon.  Wal,  you  look  like  it.  You've  had  a  pretty  lively 
time  of  ilji  I  should  gueis.  Oome  along  up  here.  Sambo,  and  have  a 
sup  of  something  to  drink.  And  you  too,  mister ;  you  look  more  dead- 
alive  'n  even  the  nigger." 

Only  a  fortnight  ago,  it  had  stung  Mohammad  Ali  to  the  very  quick 
to  hear  himself  called  by  those  contemptuous  names,  and  now,  in  the 

i*oy  of  human  fellowship  and  a  return  to  the  world,  he  could  have  flung 
lis  arms  around  the  rough  but  well-meaning  men  of  that  rude  and 
careless  prospecting  party .  He  raised  himself  into  the  waggon  with 
what  strength  he  had  left ;  and  the  strangers  lifted  up  Ivan  carefully 
after  him.  *'  Dead  beat  1  "  the  first  speaker  muttered  compassionately. 
*' Here  you  are,  mister.  Take  a  pull  at  that.  It  ain't  water,  nor  yet 
milk.  You'll  find  it  to  do  you  good,  even  if  you  do  happen  to  be  a 
melanchoUy  teetotaller." 

Ivan  took  a  long  drink  at  the  flank  the  man  held  out  to  him,  tempt- 
ingly ;  it  was  Bourbon  whiskey,  almost  neat,  but  it  tasted  to  him  blander 
and  sweeter  than  anything  he  had  ever  drunk  in  his  life  ;  and  then  ho 
sank  exhausted  back,  wearied  out  with  fatigue,  on  the  floor  of  the 
waggon.  One  of  the  men  passed  the  bottle  on  to  Ali.  The  Indian 
took  it  and  drank  a  deep  draught.  Then  he  looked  anxiously  and 
wearily  at  Ivan.  The  men  noticed  his  earnest  look  at  once,  and  one  of 
them  olapped  him  heartily  on  the  back.  '*  That's  so,"  he  said,  with  a 
friendly  nod.    **  If  you  want  a  man  to  stick  to  you  in  hard  timesi  yga 


242  "  THB  detil's  dii. 

take  my  advice,  and  go  to  a  nigger.  Niggers  is  scum  when  all  goes 
well ;  but  when  you're  dead  broke,  I  say,  and  down  on  your  luck,  all 
their  prime  qualities  seems  to  float  uppermost,  and  they'll  stick  to  you 
then  like  grim  death  to  an  Injun." 

Ivan  raised  his  head  and  looked  them  in  the  face  with  an  appealing 
glance.  *' If  you  had  been  with  us  and  seen  all,"  he  said  earnestly, 
"you'd  know  that  no  man  ever  showed  greater  or  nobler  devotit)U  to 
another  than  my  Hindoo  friend,  Dr.  Mohammad  Ali." 

Even  those  rough  Westeners,  coarse  in  manner  and  in  grain  as  they 
were,  read  instinctively  from  his  tone  and  manner  the  profound  mean- 
ing of  Ivan  Royle's  carefully-worded  sentence.  "  Wal,  you're  a  white 
man,  and  you'd  ought  to  know,"  the  lirst  speaker  replied  after  a  short 
pause,  in  an  altered  tone.  **  He  looks  like  the  sort  of  man  one  would 
trust,  right  down,  in  a  prairie  fire.  Jest  you  set  yourself  right  thar, 
doctor.  Boys,  move  aside  a  bit,  and  see  you  make  the  doctor  square 
and  comfortable." 

As  they  drove  on,  Mohammad  Ali  told  them  the  whole  tale  without 
the  faintest  pretence  of  reserve  or  concealment.  He  explained  to  them 
in  full,  with  his  quiet  unobtrusive  Eastern  dignity,  that  he  was  a 
Mohammedan  physician,  a  native  of  India  by  birth,  but  in  practice  in 
London,  and  that  he  had  come  to  America  to  seek  his  friend,  Ivan 
Royle,  a  well-known  and  distinguished  English  painter.  At  the  last 
name  the  men  looked  up  in  quick  surprise.  "  What,  are  t/oat  Royle  ?  " 
one  of  them  asked  abruptly,  turning  to  Ivan.  '*  Why,  we've  all  been 
reading  about  you  in  the  papers.  Then  those  blamed  shunks  at  Eagle 
City  have  been  setting  you  down  to  the  credit  of  the  shake  without  duo 
regard  for  the  public  sentiment  of  journalistic  accuracy.  Monte  Joe,  the 
most  notorious  gambler  on  the  Pacific  Slope,  he  claims  in  this  morning's 
Democrat  to  have  seen  you  crushed  by  a  falling  house  in  xhe  midst  of 
the  cataclysm.  Monte  Joe  was  always  a  hard  swearer,  he  was  ;  but 
even  he  never  perjured  himself  wus'n  that,  I  reckon.  Here  you  are. 
You  can  read  it  yourself,  in  the  last  edition  of  the  Oil  City  Democrat : — 
*  Apalling  Calamity  on  the  Flanks  of  the  Sierras.  A  Town  Buried 
beneath  its  own  Ashes.  A  Prominent  English  Artist  engulfed  in  the 
Shock.  The  London  (England)  Times  Deplores  his  Loss.  Colonel 
Joseph  Jefferson  Ridley  moralizes  on  the  Effects  of  the  Awful  Catas- 
trophe. Monte  Joe  in  a  New  Character.  He  disapproves  of  the  citi- 
zens of  Eagle  City,  and  compares  their  destruction  to  the  overthrow  of 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  Is  Saul  also  among  the  prophets  ? '  There's 
something  tall  for  you,  Colonel,  I  guess,  in  the  way  of  leaded  head- 
lincB?" 

He  ran  his  finger  down  the  column  lightly,  and  then  read  out  again 
in  an  impressive  voice  :  '*  Among  the  earliest  victims,  it  is  believed,  of 
the  dire  calamity  was  Ivan  Royle,  a  talented  artist  from  London, 
England,  who  had  been  engaged  in  painting  up  for  a  British  firm  the 
scenes  and  scenery  of  Nevada's  wild  and  lonely  sierras.  As  soon  as 
news  of  the  disastrous  catastrophe  was  wired  east,  telegrams  were  des- 
patched from  New  York  by  tliu  a;.j(!ntB  of  a  pnaniiiont  Loudon  journal 
Inquiring  after  Mr,  lio|l<^'9  eafuty.    Aocurdiu^  tg  C'Vlonel  JuaepU  J« 


THB  DKTIL'S  DIl.  243 

Ridley,  better  known  in  sporting  circles  as  Monte  Joe,  the  only  sur- 
vivor yet  interviewed,  Royle  was  in  the  ci'y  on  the  day  of  the  shock,  and 
was  crushed  by  the  fall  of  the  Road  to  Ruin,  a  low  gambling  saloon 
which  he  often  frequented.  Joe  told  a  reporter  he  considered  Eagle 
City  the  worst  and  most  abandoned  hole  on  the  Pacific  slope,  and 
though  he  was  occasionally  attracted  there  himself  by  business,  he  does 
not  regret  the  extinction  of  such  a  vile  nest  of  thieves  and  gamblers. 
It  is  conjectured  from  this  that  he  owed  money  to  several  deceased  citi- 
zens. The  colonel  speaks  severely  of  the  sin  of  gambling  now,  and  pro- 
poses to  retire  from  active  life  into  the  State  Legislature.  He  claimi 
that  Eagle  City  provoked  its  just  doom  from  an  indulgent  Providence, 
and  he  compares  its  fall  to  the  fiery  destruction  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah. 
The  public  do  not  implicitly  accept  the  sincerity  of  Joe's  t^rdy  conver- 
lion.     They  say  he  might  with  propriety  have  begun  earlier." 

Mohammad  Ali  gasped  with  surprise.  In  a  few  words  he  described 
to  them  the  real  scene  that  accompanied  his  own  and  Ivan's  expulsion 
from  that  doomed  camp.  The  men  laughed,  but  were  evidently  weigh- 
ed down  within  by  a  superstitious  awe.  "  Depend  upon  it,  doctor," 
jbhe  driver  said,  impressively,  '*  it  was  a  special  Providence.  The 
hymn  says,  *  in  a  mysterious  way.  His  wonders  to  perform. '  You  two 
uras  meant  to  be  saved  from  that  thar  earthquake.  Thar's  where  it  is. 
Eagle  City  had  got  to  go,  but  afore  it  went  it  threw  the  two  just  men 
out  of  it." 

They  drove  along  at  a  rattling  pace  to  a  house  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  phantom  town,  where  the  men  descended,  with  an  air  of  old 
AC<][uaintance  ;  a  house  as  ruinous  and  desolate  and  dreary  as  all'itB 
neighbours,  but  which  their  now  friend  seemed  to  accept  as  his  own  at 
once  by  right  of  discovery.  So  far,  the  fugitives  had  been  too  fatigued 
to  dream  of  questioning  their  strange  rescuers  ;  they  were  satisfied  to 
be  back  once  more  in  human  company,  and  to  see  some  chance,  in  a 
dim  way,  of  a  return  to  England.  It  was  all  like  a  dream,  and,  as  in 
a  dream,  they  took  it  all  in  without  surprise  or  /onder.  But  when 
one  of  the  men  leaped  down  at  last  on  the  steps  of  the  ramshakled 
tenement  and  cried  aloud,  *'  Wal,  gentlemen,  welcome  back  once  more 
to  home  and  Carthage  1  "  Mohammad  All's  curiosity  was  fairly  arous- 
ed, and  he  asked  as  he  alighted,  **  Is  this  Carthage  ?  " 

That's  so,  doctor,"  his  new  friend  answered  gravely.  "  You  are  sit- 
ting, like  Julius  Csesar  or  Pompey,  or  whoever  the  classical  gent  mightt 
be,  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  My  name's  Hannibal, — Hannibal 
Mulkins.  I  was  formerly  printer,  editor,  and  publisher  of  that  high- 
class  journal,  the  Carthaginian  Patriot.  Eight  years  ago  Carthage  was 
abandoned  owing  to  a  shake.  Circumstances  (over  which  we  have  no 
control)  have  changed  since  then,  and  to-day  we  all  go  solid  for  rebuild- 
ing the  good  old  Phoenician  city.  The  Punic  wars  are  now  over.  An- 
other Dido  shall  establish  anew  a  permanent  citadel  on  the  aides  of  the 
desert." 

*'  I  see,"  Ali  said  :  **  the  town  was  abandoned  because  an  earthquake 
made  the  wells  fail." 

"Doctor,"  Mr.  Hannibal  Mulkins  answered  with  an  awkward  bow, 


244  THB  DRYIL'B  DI& 

"  you  put  it  thar.  You're  a  right  smart  man.  Too  ■ot  your  finger 
down  upon  it  straight,  thar.  Yea  sir,  that's  exactly  how  it  all  happened. 
Jest  eight  years  ago,  we  was  earthshook  hero  on  this  very  spot,  till  all 
the  ceilings  was  on  the  drawing-room  carpets,  and  roofing  shingles  was 
quoted  at  an  alarming  discount  in  the  retail  markets.  But  it  wasn't 
for  that  we  cleared  out  you  bet." 

It  was  the  water  as  drove  'em.  The  earthquake  dried  up  tiie  river 
as  well  as  the  oil  springs.  We  don't  mind  snakes,  and  we  don't  mind 
oil  famines,  but,  as  a  sober  community,  we  go  it  blind  on  water.  You 
never  see  such  a  scattering  of  the  clans  in  all  your  days.  There  ain't 
been  anything  seen  like  it  anywhere,  ever  since  Exodus.  And  when 
you  arrived  at  Carthage  by  yourselves  this  morning,  I  calculate  you 
found  business  kind  of  suspended." 

"We  did,"  Ali  answered  with  perfect  gravity.  "Every  store  we 
went  into  was  under  liquidation.  But  why  are  you  all  coming  back 
now  ?    Because  the  oil  has  begun  to  run  again  ? " 

"  Oil  ?  Wal,  yes,  oil  has  a  finger  in  it,  1  don't  deny ;  but  it's  not  the 
oil  only — though  that's  running  extremely  lively — but  the  water,  too, 
that  brings  us  back  again  to  the  Lares  and  Panates.  'Pears  as  if  thia 
last  big  shake  had  sort  of  reversed  the  action  of  the  previous  one. 
The  oil's  pumping  up  of  itself  now,  as  hard  as  it  can  go,  without  any 
horse-power,  and  the  river's  flowing  as  if  it  had  to  make  up  in  full  for 
all  arrears  between  this  and  Christmas." 

*'  The  river  1 "  Ali  cried.  "  Is  there  a  river  here,  then  ?  Not  down 
the  canyon,  for  we  came  that  way.  There  isn't  a  drop  of  water  there 
anywhere." 

'*  No,  not  down  the  canyon,"  his  friend  assented  with  a  quiet  nod, 
**  but  from  the  wall  south.  There's  springs  in  the  wall — at  least  there 
was — that  must  have  bust  out  again  from  the  look  of  the  country. 
Any  way,  we  got  the  news  of  the  fresh  departure  at  Oil  City  yesterday ; 
people  up  the  trail  noticed  water  coming  down  the  river  like  mad  again, 
and  coal  oil  floating  and  dancing  like  a  ballet  girl  on  top  of  it.  And 
as  we're  large  holders  of  town  lots  in  Cathgate,  the  boys  and  1,  we 
didn't  lose  a  minute,  but  came  up  her  right  smart  to  settle  in  ;  for  the 
wells  are  run  dry  at  Oil  City,  and  to  morrow  Carthage  '11  be  on  the 
boom  as  fresh  as  ever.     Last  week,  town  lots  here  wasn't  worth  the 

value  of  the  paper  you'd  transfer  'em  on,  and  to-day do  you  see  thia 

'ere  ramshackle  old  lot  of  mine  thar,  doctor  ?  Wal,  I've  got  frontage 
right  down  to  the  river,  and  a  bit  of  the  canyon  for  a  mile  up  ;  and  I 
wouldn't  take  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  the  ground  this  minute — not  if 
you  was  to  ofier  it  ;  no,  sir,  I  wouldn't.  We'er  going  to  be  in  for  a 
big  thing,  I  toll  you  that,  and  Carthage  will  rise  like  tho  Phoonix  once 
more  rosplendant  from  her  ashes.  Oil  '11  well  out  from  her  like  an 
oleaginous  Bis  Bonanza.  We've  struck  it  now,  and  we  mean  to  stick 
to  it.  Look  alive  thar,  boys,  and  tote  them  blankets  in  smart,  will 
you  ? " 

That  night  at  last  Ivan  Royle  and  Mohammad  Ali  slept,  if  not  in  a 
civilized  b^d,  at  least  under  what  had  once  been  a  civilized  roof,  and 
with  real  bed-clothes  wrapped  tightly  round  them.    Their  unexpected 


TBS  dsvil's  DIt.  245 

resonen  were  kindness  itself,  in  a  rough  way,  to  the  wearied  wayfarers ; 
and,  when  they  had  learnt  all  their  story,  did  their  very  best  to  relieve 
their  wants  with  food  and  attention.  The  ghastly  ordeal  was  over  at 
last.  They  were  in  touch  once  more  with  European  civilization.  They 
slept  like  children  on  the  hard  floor  that  happy  night,  and  never  woke 
again  till  the  morning  sun  had  risen  high  above  the  rained  roofs  of 
their  tumble-down  refuge.  ,  •  ^ 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 

Threb  days  days  later,  Seeta  Mayne  sat  lonely  in  her  own  little  room 
at  Polperran  Rectory — for  she  was  almost  a  fixture  there  now — debat- 
ing deeply  in  her  much  perturbed  mind  how  she  could  ever  break  that 
terrible  news  to  poor  crushed  and  terror-stricken  Olwen. 

As  she  sat  there,  wondering  and  doubting  to  herself  what  course 
would  be  best  for  her  to  take,  a  timid  little  knock  at  the  door  aroused 
her  suddenly.  She  rose  to  open  it,  and  found  Olwen  standing  in  a 
light  black-and-white  mourning  gown,  with  her  garden  hat  hanging 
loose  in  her  hand ,  and  a  frightened  expression  of  mingled  alarm  and 
wonder  on  her  childish  face.  "What  is  it,  darling?  "  she  asked  ten- 
derly. "You  look  frightened,  Olwen.  Has  anybody  been  terrifying 
you  ?    Do  you  want  me  for  anything  ?  " 

Olwen  held  up  a  telegraph  envelope.  "This  has  come  for  you, 
Seeta,"  she  said,  resolutely,  "and  I  took  it  from  the  boy  myself  to 
bring  it  up  to  you.  There's  something  the  matter  :  I'm  sure  there  is. 
They  tried  so  hard  to  keep  me  from  getting  it." 

It  was  Seeta's  turn  to  grow  pale  with  fright.  A  telegram  from 
America,  no  doubt,  announcing  the  recovery  of  Ivan's  body  from  the 
mangled  ruins  of  Eagle  City.  She  snatched  the  envelope  from  Olwen 
in  tremulous  haste,  and  thrust  it  hurriedly  into  her  breast  with  a  look 
of  utter  despair  and  terror.  But  Olwen's  suspicions  were  now  fairly 
aroused,  and,  iike  a  mischievous  child,  she  dashed  at  it  wildly  and  tore 
it  once  more  from  Seeta's  bosom.  Before  Seeta  could  intervene  she 
had  broken  the  flap,  and  was  reading  the  telegram  by  the  open  window. 

Seeta  glanced  over  her  shoulder  in  agony.  What  could  it  be  ?  The 
words  brought  the  blood  back  to  hor  heart  with  a  bound.  "  Report  of 
our  death  quite  baseless.  Ivan  and  I  returned  at  once  by  steamer  Oity 
of  Savannc^,  reaching  Liverpool  about  the  30th. — Mohammad  All" 

Olwen  burst  into  a  flood  to  tears  and  buried  her  head  nestling  on 
Seeta'f  shoulder.  "Oh,  Seeta  1"  she  cried,  "have  I  done  wrong  1 
Was  it — was  it  right  of  me  to  ask  him  to  fetch  Ivan  ? " 

It  WAS  the  first  outburst  of  won)anly  feeling  they  had  ever  seen  in 
her  since  her  groat  shock.  Hitlierto,  she  had  talked  and  felt  and  acted 
like  A  child.  The  near  approach  of  a  meeting  with  Ivan  seemed  to 
r<uso  some  faint  echo  of  the  half-forgotten  woman  once  more  within 


i46  THB   devil's   DIB. 

her.  Day  by  day  she  had  been  growing,  as  it  were,  to  maturity  again. 
This  prospect  brought  her  back  to  the  very  verge  of  womanhood. 
.  Seeta  soothed  her  and  stroked  her  hair.  "  It  was  quite  right,  my 
darling,"  she  answered,  with  a  sinking  heart.  Heaven  help  her  for 
that  lie  1  She  felt  she  was  aiding  and  abetting  in  treachery  to  Harry. 
'*  Ivan's  a  kind,  good  fellow,  and  very  fond  of  you.  He's  my  cousin, 
too,  and  I've  always  admired  him.  You  like  Ivan.  It's  well  you  should 
have  him  back  now  near  you." 

' '  But  suppose "  OlwenJ  said,  raising  her  face,  and  then  checked 

herself  suddenly.  A  faint  blush  spread  like  a  rosy  cloud  over  her  pale 
cheek.  She  buried  her  head  on  Seeta's  shoulder  once  more,  and 
sobbed  away  the  conflicting  feelings  within  her.  She  was  no  longer  a 
child — a  mere  child.  Some  vague  reminiscences  of  maidenly  shame 
were  reviving  slowly  in  her  poor  puzzled  and  bewildered  nature. 

Ivan  was  very  kind  and  good  ;  but  somehow  she  fancied  she  oughtn't 
to  have  asked  for  him  to  come  from  America.  She  thought  it  must 
be  wrong  to  ask  for  anybody.  America's  so  very  far  away,  and  perhaps 
Ivan  was  awfully  busy  there. 

Seeta  ran  down  to  the  drawing-room  in  haste  followed  by  Olwen. 
•'  Has  the  paper  come  ? "  she  asked  of  the  housemaid.  The  girl  handed  her 
that  morning's  Times.  Yes,  there  it  was  sure  enough.  "  Safety  of  Mr. 
Ivan  Royle. — Denver,  Colorado,  July  14.  Mr.  Ivan  Royle  and  Dr. 
Mohammad  Ali,  arrived  safely  two  days  since  at  Carthage,  Montana." 

It  was  quite  true.  In  another  fortnight  Ivan  would  be  back.  The 
fugitives  from  the  tender  mercies  of  Eagle  City  had  been  carefully 
tended  by  Mr.  Hannibal  Mulkins  and  his  lively  part/',  and  were  now  on 
a  fair  way  of  recovery  from  the  fatigue  and  exposure  of  their  incredible 

J'ourney.  The  dangers  and  hardships  they  had  undergone  made  them  the 
ions  of  the  moment  in  rejuvenescent  Carthage,  in  spite  even  of  the  bustle 
and  excitement  which  necessarily  attended  its  second  foundation.  The 
Carthaginians  were  kindness  and  care  itself.  Carthage  was  being  reno- 
vated under  Ivan's  very  eyes  with  the  marvellous  rapidity  of  American 
civilization.  The  houses  were  being  re-roofed,  the  doors  and  windows 
replaced,  the  waterworks  re-established,  the  rails  relaid.  The  noise  of 
hammers  resounded  perpetually  through  the  ruined  streets.  When 
they  quitted  Carthage,  four  days  later,  it  was  already  a  town  of  some 
three  hundred  iiihabitants,  and  every  hour  brought  its  new  arrivals  on 
foot  or  by  waggon.  People  were  reclaiming  their  abandoned  town  lots, 
and  re-furnishing  their  shattered  and  dismantled  houses.  Ivan  and  Ali 
had  slept  for  two  nights  before  they  left  on  a  real  bedstead,  and  they 
went  away  by  the  first  train  on  the  hastily  made  railway  that  crawled 
over  the  roughly-laid  temporary  sleepers  from  resurgent  Carthage. 

Happily,  Mohammad  Ali  had  still  his  circular  letters  of  credit  from 
his  London  banker — the  roughs  of  Eagle  City  had  feared  to  appropriate 
those,  lest  detection  should  fall  upon  them  in  Eastern  towns — and  at 
Denver,  where  they  stopped  for  a  day  en  route,  they  were  able  to  fit 
themselves  op  with  clothes  anew,  getting  rid  of  the  grotesque  rig-out 
which  the  hospitality  of  Carthage  had  pressed  upon  their  heads  wiUi 
moro  zeal  than  discretion.    Theuce  they  hurried  on,  post  haste,  to  New 


THE  DEVIL'S  DIK.  247 

York,  where  they  took  bertha  in  the  very  first  steamer  that  sailed  for 
Liverpool.  It  was  the  one  Ali  had  mentioned  in  his  telegram  to  Seeta, 
the  City  of  Savannahy  of  the  Blue  Diamond  line,  one  of  the  lart,est,  best, 
and  fastest  vessels  on  the  great  steam  ferry  between  America  and 
England. 

As  Ali  planted  his  foot  once  more  upon  a  British  deck,  and  saw  the 
long  low  line  of  Sandy  Hook  fading' fast  behind  him  in  the  dim  distance, 
he  drew  a  long  breath,  and  gave  a  heart-felt  sigh  of  profound  relief. 
Thank  God,  he  was  rid  of  America  for  ever  1 

Till  that  terrible  journey,  he  had  never  known  how  great  a  privilege 
it  was  to  be  a  British  subject.  As  he  paced  the  deck  of  the  Oity  of 
Savannah,  however,  ploughing  her  way  across  the  sea  to  England,  he 
felt  at  last  like  a  free  man  ;  he  recognized  the  truth  that  nowhere  in 
the  world  is  a  person  of  his  colour  so  raised  above  the  reach  of  vulgar 
prejudice  as  within  the  four  sea  walls  of  Britain.  He  longed  for  tha 
rocky  coasts  of  Ireland  to  appear  on  their  bows  as  he  could  never  have 
longed  for  the  sight  of  his  native  land.  England  has  many  and  great 
faults  ;  nobody  knew  them  better  than  Mohammad  Ali ;  but,  at  least, 
it  is  the  land  where  human  freedom  and  individual  opinion  are  moat 
respected,  the  land  where  the  naked  value  of  man,  as  man,  is  rated  the 
highest,  the  land  where,  "girt  with  friends  or  foes,  a  man  may  speak 
the  thing  he  will,"  in  public  or  in  private.  Mohammad  Ali  loved  it 
now  with  a  love  passing  the  love  of  its  own  children.  No  one,  indeed, 
can  love  England  so  well  as  those  who  have  found  in  her  the  freedom  to 
think,  and  act,  and  speak,  which  other  countries — their  own  included 
— have  rudely  denied  them. 

In  America,  and  even  in  the  British  colonies,  individuality  and  liberty 
of  opinion  are  wholly  unknown.  Men  must  think  and  speak  as  the 
mass  thinks  and  speaks,  or  hide  their  belief  deep  in  their  own  bosoms. 
It  is  in  England  alone  that  a  man  is  a  man,  in  spite  of  race  or  creed  or 
caste  or  colour — in  England  alone  that  a  man  may  say  almost  every- 
thing he  honestly  feels  and  believes,  without  fear  of  interference  from 
the  crushing  weight  of  public  opinion.  This  is  our  one  great  English 
birthright  ;  may  we  never  give  it  up  to  the  loud  cries  of  any 
democracy,  Tory  or  Radical,  however  many-headed,  blatant  and  un- 
reusoning. 

On  the  seventh  day  out,  the  City  of  Savannah  was  getting  ftiirly 
well  abreast  of  the  coast  of  Donegal.  No  uglier  coast  exists  anywhere 
round  the  British  islands,  even  in  the  fairest  and  clearest  of  weather  : 
and  when  the  City  of  Savannah  was  nearing  Tory  Island,  its  furthest 
outpost,  the  sky  was  distinctly  dark  and  murky. 

As  the  day  grew  older,  the  fog  ahead  thickened  rapidly,  and  by  after- 
noon they  were  ^oing  half  speed  through  a  white  mist  of  the  moat 
blinding  character. 

Nevertheless,  at  dinner,  the  captain  wafi  in  his  place  at  the  head  of 
the  table.  When  the  captain  turns  up  in  the  saloon  at  feeding  times, 
pdl  is  running  smooth  on  the  ship,  you  may  be  certain.  With  danger 
«head,  the  captain's  place  is  upon  the  bridge.    His  broftd  (e4  fM«  at 


848  THB  dbyil's  mm. 

the  head  of  the  table  ia  the  visible  symbol  to  all  whom  it  may  concero 

of  security  and  comfort. 

The  fog  lay  thick  on  the  sea,  and  the  shrill-toned  fog  horn  was 
droning  out  almost  constantly  its  dull,  lugubrious,  monotonous  music. 
Fog-horns  are  the  incarnation  of  the  fiends  of  the  sea.  A  nasty  night 
on  a  crowded  ocean  lane.  Craft  by  the  dozen  throng  that  passage. 
And  they  were  slowing  off  now  to  approach  Derry, 


CHAPTER  XLVnL 

Thb  Indian  paced  the  quarter-deck  in  solemn  silence.  All  the  other 
passengers  had  gone  below.  The  white  mist  shone  bright  around  the 
ship's  lights.  Beyond,  all  was  gloom  and  darkness  visible.  They  were 
moving  on  at  half  speed,  but  with  gigantic  force,  feeling  their  way 
through  the  waters  blindfold.  Every  man  likes  to  see  where  he's  go- 
ing. To  the  landsman,  a  storm  at  sea  is  the  most  terrible  of  all  things ; 
but  the  seafaring  man  knows  better.  He  dreads  a  fog  ten  thousand 
times  more  than  the  worst  hurricane  that  ever  blew  out  of  an  angry 
heaven.  He  recognizes  that  the  powerful  monster  on  whose  deck  he 
stands  is  steadily  ploughing  her  way  onward,  he  knows  not  whither, 
with  sightless  haste,  towards  rock,  or  shoal,  or  iceberg,  or  collision. 

Mohammad  Ali,  old  sailor  that  he  was,  thinking  these  things  in 
silence  to  himself,  approached  the  gunwale  to  knock  his  ash  off  into 
the  receptive  Atlantic.  As  he  did  so,  a  voice  rang  out  suddenly,  clear 
and  distinct,  through  the  darkness  of  the  night,  from  the  forward  look- 
out :  *'  I  see  a  light  on  the  starboard  bow,"  it  said,  in  sharp  tones  of 
hasty  warning.  Then,  after  a  short  pause,  **  Great  God  I  she's  on 
usl" 

Three  quick  short  rings  at  the  electric  engine  bell.  A  loud  cry  of 
**  Port  your  Helm  1 "  A  sudden  flash  of  white  canvas  amidships.  A 
shivering  bowsprit.  An  echoing  crash.  A  shock  that  jarred  and 
quivered  through  the  great  ship's  planks.  A  hurried  turmoil  of  con- 
flicting orders.  A  brig  foundering  helpless  in  an  eddying  sea  before 
their  very  eyes.  A  noise  of  loud  waters  rushing  into  the  hold.  And 
then,  in  an  instant,  all  was  over  I 

Later  on,  the  terrified  passengers  learnt  in  det>ail  that  a  collier  brig 
had  struck  the  City  of  Savannah  on  the  starboard  side,  just  abaft  the 
boiler-room,  had  sunk  herself,  almost  unseen,  and  had  stove  in  the 
steamer's  hull  bodily,  with  her  fierce  onslaught.  But  for  the  momenfe 
they  only  knew  in  a  vague  way  that  something  disastrous  had  over- 
taken their  vessel.  Thoy  hurried  up  from  their  berths,  alarmed  and 
eager.  In  a  few  minutes  the  deck  was  thickly  crowded  with  men, 
women,  and  children,  in  hasty  costumes,  some  of  them  pale,  calm,  and 
resolute  ;  others  crying,  groaning,  and  wringing  their  liands  in  an  im- 
potent agony  of  unspeakable  terror.    The  steerage  passengers  in  parti- 


THi  Dim's  Dii.  249 

etilar  were  quite  nncontrollable.  It  was  an  awful  sight.  Mohammad 
Ali  hoped  never  to  see  another  such.  The  fright  and  miseiy  of  the 
women  and  children  was  bad  enough,  but  the  callous  selfishness  of 
many  of  the  men  struck  him  absolutely  speechless  with  disgust  and 
anger.  They  rushed  et  the  boats  in  wild  dismay,  bearing  down  in  their 
panic  the  helpless  creatures  whom  they  ought  to  have  protected,  and 
they  were  only  beaten  off  from  them  at  last  with  difficulty  by  the 
strenuous  resistance  of  officers  and  crew,  who  fronted  them  with  revol- 
vers in  serried  order. 

Before  the  crowd  of  passengers  on  deck  could  see  what  arrangements 
were  being  made  for  their  safety,  with  a  sudden  snap  the  ship  was 
enveloped  in  black  darkness.  Modern  science  has  added  that  further 
horror  to- all  the  older  horrors  of  a  hasty  shipwreck.  The  water,  pour- 
ing in  like  a  flood  into  the  dameged  compartments,  had  put  out  the 
fires,  <  and,  with  the  stoppage  of  the  engines,  the  electric  light,  with 
which  the  steamer  was  fitted  from  end  to  end,  went  out  at  once,  leav* 
ing  the  stunned  and  bewildered  passengers  to  grope  their  way  up  in 
fear  and  trembling  as  best  they  might  through  the  dark  long  corridors. 
Next  moment,  a  rush  and  a  confused  sound  of  shouting  voices  was 
heard  forward,  where  a  mob  of  black  and  grimy  wretches  tsurged  madly 
up  the  steps  from  the  engine-room  and  coal  bunkers,  whence  the  water 
which  was  drowning  and  quenching  the  firee,  baa  hastily  driven  them. 
It  was  the  body  of  firemen — the  stok'jrp  and  engine-tenders — a  wild 
gang,  naked  to  the  waist  and  covered  with  coal  dust,  who  made  boldly 
for  the  boats  in  one  tierce  sharp  dash,  snrieking  and  yelling  with  their 
hoarse  voices  more  like  frenzied  demons  than  like  human  beings  in 
their  proper  senses.  These  roiserablb  creatures  are  never  true  seamen  ; 
most  often  they  are  the  vilest  and  lowest  of  the  low,  the  drunken  refuse 
poured  forth  by  dens  a/.id  aiunw  in  seaport  towns,  who  ship  in  despair 
as  firemen  in  the  last  reaon;,  sometimes  for  a  single  voyage  only,  to 
work  out  their  passage  in  dirt  and  discomfort  to  the  other  side.  Their 
employment  is  the  most*  hateful  and  degrading  known  to  mankind. 
Naked  and  wretchci,  in  ..ftifling  heat  and  utter  darkness,  cooped  up  in 
the  close  and  airless  bowels  of  a  tossing  ship,  sleepless  and  miserable 
night  and  day  aliko,  these  outcast  parasites  of  our  skin-deep  civilization, 
the  necessary  victims  of  our  great  and  boasted  Atlantic  steamship 
service,  toil  on  from  hour  to  hour,  in  sickness  and  grime,  stoking  the 
fires  for  a  miserable  wage,  dripping  with  sweat  from  every  pore,  and 
kept  down  in  emergencies  by  brute  force  on  the  part  of  the  officers  and 
Rail(<rs  who  use  and  despise  them.  And  now  that  the  sea  was  fairly 
upon  them,  drowning  their  fires  and  flooding  their  quarters,  they 
rushed  up  in  a  mass,  more  like  brute  beasts  than  human  beings,  in  a 
frantic  endeavour  to  seize  the  boats  for  themselves  before  the  women 
and  children  of  the  luckier  few  could  manage  to  get  them. 

A  terrible  struggle  ensued  by  the  davits.  The  officers  and  sailorsi 
armed  with  belaying  pins,  and  dealing  hard  blows  without  mercy  on 
their  panic-stricken  assailants,  laid  about  them  right  and  left  upon  the 
naked  backs  and  shoulders  of  the  fierce  mob.  The  firemen,  m  their 
fcurn,  possessed  like  devils  with  the  strange  insenaibility  of  terror  and 


S50  THB   DBYIL'B   DIB. 

despair,  heedless  of  the  blows  showered  down  with  stunning  force  upon 
their  heads  and  shoulders  by  the  angry  oflBcers,  sprang  into  the'  boats 
and  began  to  lower  them  with  hasty  hands  in  their  craven  care  for  their 
own  wretched  and  useless  lives.  If  you  choose  to  reduce  men  to  the 
level  of  brutes,  you  must  take  the  consequences.  The  firemen  fought 
with  teeth  and  nails  and  fiats  and  hands  and  feet,  like  cats  or  monkeys, 
springing  savagely  in  the  faces  of  the  trained  sailors,  who,  inured  to 
danger  and  thoroughly  disciplined,  fought  them  hard  with  ordered 
or4:;anization  for  the  passengers  and  women.  The  captain,  rushing  down 
from  the  bridge,  revolver  in  hand,  stood  threateningly  at  their  head 
beside  the  davits.  "  You  black  devils  1  "  he  cried  in  a  voice  of  thunder 
that  rose  above  the  shouts  and  wails  and  groaning  of  the  women  ;  *'  the 
very  first  man  that  looses  a  rope,  I'll  shoot  him  dead  as  soon  as  look  at 
him." 

The  firemen  laughed  with  hoarse,  grim  laughter.  Their  blood  was 
up,  and  they  cared  little  for  threats.  One  of  them  untied  the  nearest 
slip-knot.  Cr-r-r-ack.  The  captain's  revolver  boomed  over  the  deck. 
The  man  fell,  bleeding  profusely  from  his  breast,  into  the  boat  above. 
"But  the  ©thers  never  slackened  or  heeded  one  second  for  that.  Before 
the  crew  could  stop  them,  three  of  the  boats,  half  filled  with  grimy  and 
shrieking  wretches,  were  lowered  to  the  sea.  One  of  them,  carelessly 
loosed  by  unskilful  and  terrified  hands,  capsized  as  she  fell  ;  and  the 
men  rolled  over,  with  a  ghastly  cry  and  with  shrieks  and  oaths,  intc 
the  silent  water.  The  rest,  in  the  other  two  boats,  never  pausing  or 
waiting  to  succour  them  for  a  moment,  pushing  off  with  their  oars  from 
the  sinking  broadside,  riding  down  their  drowning  comrades  as  they 
clutched  or  struggled  in  the  cold  sea,  and  were  lost  forthwith  in  the  fog 
and  the  darkness. 

The  capsized  boat  filled  and  sank  rapidly.  The  steamer  was  lowering 
visibly  every  instant  towards  the  water's  edge.  Captain  and  men, 
relieved  from  most  of  the  firemen  now,  were  busy  letting  down  the 
remaining  boats  as  hastily  as  possible.  The  half-dozen  stokers  still 
left  upon  the  deck,  however,  fought  hard  even  yet  for  possession  of  one 
m  )re  among  them.  Ivan  Royle,  Mohammad  Ali,  and  a  few  other  of 
tiio  calmer  and  more  cool-headed  passengers,  acting  under  orders  from 
the  captain,  held  them  at  bay  with  belaying  pins  and  rope-ends,  while 
the  crew  prepared  the  nearest  and  largest  boat  for  the  women  and 
cliildren.  The  captain,  quiet  and  collected,  like  a  man  accustomed  to 
such  scenes  of  terror,  stood  by  and  directed  everything  in  admirable 
order  with  a  firm  and  steady  voice.  Discipline  does  wonders  on  an 
emergency.  In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  the  boats  were  lowered, 
and  the  women  and  children  were  being  safely  placed  in  them  by  the 
strong  and  kindly  hands  of  the  sailors. 

Two  boats  were  rapidly  and  successfully  filled  with  those  helpless 
freights.  The  stoutest  of  the  sailors  manned  them  in  good  order,  and 
the  chief  officer  and  another  took  command  in  the  stern.  With  a  steady 
push  thev  got  well  under  way,  and  faded  in  turn  through  the  dim  fog, 
uito  the  blaokless  of  night.  The  men  on  board  were  left  alone  now. 
Mohammad  Ali  glanced  sideways  at  Ivan.    Pray  heaven,  he  thuught — 


TOB   devil's  DIB.  351 

for  Olwen's   sake — they    might   put    him   in    the    next   boat  they 
lowered. 

Only  two  boats  now  remained.  One  had  been  crushed  by  the 
bow  of  the  collier,  which  wrenched  the  mizzen  rigging  from  its  fasten- 
ings bodily,  and  crushed  the  captain's  gig  into  little  pieces.  Into  these 
two  last,  the  elder  and  feebler  male  passengers  were  hurriedly  thrust. 
A  few  of  the  lads  among  the  crew  were  also  included,  as  well  as  the 
ship's  doctor,  specially  favoured  on  the  domestic  ground  that  he  had 
only  just  married.  The  boats  were  filling  up  rapidly  at  the  last. 
Mohammad  Ali  began  to  fear,  with  an  unspoken  terror,  that  no  place 
would  be  found  in  either  for  Ivan.  The  first  of  the  two  big  tubs  had 
already  been  loaded  and  cast  off  to  her  fate.  The  second  was  almost 
as  full  as  she  could  hold.  *'  Room  for  one  more,"  the  officer  in  charge 
called  out  in  a  loud  clear  voice.  Mohammad  Ali  pushed  his  friend 
suggestively  forward,  "  Jump  in,  Ivan,"  he  cried  in  eager  haste. 
*'  It's  your  last  chance.  Take  it  while  it  lasts.  Go  now  ;  go  quickly. 
If  you  don't  make  haste,  some  one  else  will  snap  at  it.  For  her  sake, 
it's  your  duty,  your  duty." 

Ivan  hung  back  with  unfeigned  reluctance.  How  could  he  leave  his 
generous  friend  behind  him  ?  ' '  Ali,"  he  cried  I  can't  do  it.  Jump  in 
yourself.  I  can  never  desert  you.  Go,  go,  I  beg  of  you.  You're  worth 
a  thousand  such  men  as  me.  If  I  went  without  you,  I  could  never 
spend  another  happy  moment." 

At  the  word  the  grimy  firemen  made  another  ugly  rush.  Was  this 
a  time  to  stand  upon  politeness  ?  The  few  remaining  sailors  beat  them 
oflf  with  difficulty.  '*Now  then,  sir,"  the  officer  in  charge  called  out 
sharply.  "  Are  you  coming  or  are  you  not  ?  We  can't  wait  for  you. 
If  she  sinks,  her  wash'll  founder  us.  One  or  the  other,  make  up  your 
mind  which,  but  don't  stand  there  for  ever  disputing  about  it  1 " 

Ivan  turned  with  one  despairing  look,  and  tried  to  push  Ali  by  main 
force  into  the  loaded  boat.  As  he  did  so,  the  firemen  dashed  forward 
once  more  in  a  wild  onset,  and  tried  to  break  through  the  little 
serried  line  of  brave  defenders.  "  White  men  first,"  the  captain  cried 
in  a  tone  of  authority.  Mohammad  Ali  and  a  sailor  seized  Ivan  as  he 
spoke,  resistlessly,  by  his  waist  and  arms,  and  almost  flung  him  on  to 
the  thwarts  below.  Ivan  struggled,  but  all  in  vain.  The  sailors  caught 
him,  and  set  him  in  his  place  with  an  air  of  authority.  The  bosun's 
whistle  sounded  shrill  at  once  through  the  darkness  of  the  fog.  The 
boat  held  ofi",  and  stood  about  a  minute.  *' Good-bye,"  Mohammad 
Ali  shouted  triumphantly  from  the  deck.  '*  Every  man  has  his  fate. 
My  work  is  done.     Good-bye,  Ivan." 

*'  Good-bye,"  Ivan  cried  in  a  voice  choked  with  emotion.  Next 
moment  the  boat  faded  away  in  the  dim  and  murky  fog,  and  the  last 
that  Ivan  saw  of  his  devoted  friend  was  a  black  hand,  with  a  diamond 
ring  upon  it,  waving  farewell  to  him  from  the  deck  of  the  sinking 
steamer. 

The  captain  and  Ali,  with  a  handful  of  the  ablest-bodied  passengers 
and  a  few  sailors,  were  left  alone  now  face  to  face  with  the  infuriitod 


252  THK  DBVIL'I   DII. 

remnant  of  the  half-naked  firemen.  The  CKty  of  Savannah  was  found- 
ering fast.  The  water  rose  high  above  the  lower  port-holes,  and  only 
the  saloon  stood  high  above  the  level  of  the  calm  sea.  *'  Brandy  1 
Brandy  1 "  the  fireman  cried  in  a  wild  shout,  and  rushed  to  the  bar. 
They  seized  the  bottles,  and,  breaking  them  against  one  another  in 
their  frantic  haste,  drank  from  their  necks  the  neat  spirits  with  the 
greed  of  despair.  Meanwhile,  the  captain,  cool  and  collected  still,  as 
if  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  run  had  happened,  was  dealing  out  life 
preservers  to  passengers  and  crew  with  official  regularity.  Every  man 
took  one  and  girded  it  round  his  waiat  in  solemn  silence.  The  firemen, 
returning,  took  theirs  too,  and  seizing  on  whatever  spars  they  could 
find  about  the  ship,  flung  themselves  off  with  half-drunken  shouts  into 
the  black  water.  Two  of  them  still  lay  stunned  with  their  wounds  and 
the  blows  of  the  belaying-pins  huddled  up  on  the  deck.  The  captain 
and  crew  seemed  absolutely  to  disregard  their  despised  presence. 
*'  Take  a  plank  each,"  the  captain  cried  in  as  clear  and  authoritative  a 
tone  as  ever.  "  Fill  your  flasks  with  brandy — you'll  want  it  soon  in  the 
cold  water — jump  overboard  quietly,  and  swim  together  in  good  order. 
You're  not  above  two  miles  from  the  Donegal  coast.  If  you  can  find  a 
landing  place  anywhere  on  the  clifls  you  can  get  all  safe  to  shore  still, 
the  Lord  helping  us." 

Mohammad  Ali  alone  stood  unmoved  upon  the  deck,  with  folded  arms, 
beside  the  fallen  fireman.  He  didn't  attempt  to  put  on  the  life-buoy  the 
captain  had  handed  him.  As  he  said  himself, his  work  was  done.  He 
had  brought  back  Ivan  in  safety  to  Olwen.  His  own  life  would  be  but 
a  snare  in  the  way.  Ivan  knew  that  he  loved  Olwen  madly — devotedly. 
Ali  had  never  attempted  to  conceal  his  feeling  in  that  matter  from  his 
friend.  He  had  spoken  freely  to  him,  first  at  Polperran,  then  again  at 
Cannes,  afterwards  in  the  desert,  and  now  once  more — over  and  over 
again — on  this  last  voyage.  If  Ivan  and  Olwen  were  ever  married,  the 
friendship  between  himself  and  his  English  comrade  could  never  be  aa 
strong  as  it  had  lately  been.  No  man,  not  even  the  best  of  men,  can 
wish  his  wife  to  be  constantly  meeting  a  hopeless  lover,  who  loves  hei 
still  with  a  passion  all  the  more  intense  because  of  its  utter  and  entire 
hopelessness.  Mohammad  Ali  had  lived  his  life.  He  had  performed 
his  task.  The  world  could  give  him  nothing  more  than  it  had  given 
him  already.  It  was  time  for  him  to  die.  The  sensitive  Indian,  like 
a  good  Moslem,  accepted  fate,  when  it  came,  with  smiling  resignation. 
Death  to  him  was  but  a  friendly  visitor. 

'*  Now  then.  Dr.  Ali,"  the  captain  called  out  in  his  gruff  voice,  *'the 
Oity  of  Savannah  won't  last  ten  minutes  longer.  She's  flood  all 
through.  Put  on  your  belt  and  swim  like  a  man.  You're  not  afraid — 
an  old  hand  like  you  ?  I  thought  not.  No  time  to  be  loat  1  Th« 
water's  well  up  to  the  lower  deck  already." 

Mohammad  All's  lip  curled  as  he  waived  the  rough  seafaring  man 
aside  with  a  courteous  movement  of  his  delicate  black  hand.  **Save 
yourselves,  friends,"  he  said,  with  a  gentle  sigh.  "  Never  mind  about 
me.  No,  no ;  I'm  not  afraid,  indeed.  I'm  a  medical  man,  and  I'll 
»top  behind  to  look  after  the  wounded.     I  oa|i  drown  here  M  well  aa 


THB  devil's  dii.  253 

elsewhere.  These  poor  battered  creatures  shan't  go  down  alono.  1*11 
wait  and  do  what  I  can  for  them  to  the  end." 

The  captain  gazed  at  him  with  a  stony  stare.  "  Are  you  mad,  man?" 
he  cried,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  undisguised  astonishment.  "If  you 
don't  swim  for  it,  yod'll  drown  like  a  rat.  ITie  shore  over  there's  not 
two  miles  distant.  Strike  out  for  your  life,  if  you  care  to  live,  and 
leave  these  brutes  here  alone  to  go  down  at  l#eir  leisure." 

As  he  spoke,  a  light  breeze  blew  aside  the  curling  wreaths  of  mist 
on  the  sea  for  a  moment,  and  dark  and  grim,  far,  far  away  to  starboard, 
the  gaunt  black  cliffs  of  Mai  in  Head  rose  sheer  and  steep  through  the 
dark,  lowering  clouds,  with  precipitous  sides,  to  the  dusky  vault  of 
night  above  them.  The  chance  of  landing  on  that  iron  coast  was  slight 
indeed.  A  man  might  swim  for  miles  and  miles  without  ever  a  pro- 
spect of  finding  a  gap.  Mohammad  Ali  brushed  aside  the  delusive 
scheme  as  a  cobweb  of  hope.  He  folded  his  arms  again  gloomily  where 
he  stood.  *' No,  no,"  he  answered.  "Don't  trouble  for  me.  "I'm 
an  Arab  of  the  Arabs.  I'm  not  afraid  to  die.  If  fate  wills  it,  I  will 
die  here.  But  I  will  not  struggle  against  doom  for  nothing.  Good-bye, 
good  friends.  May  Allah  preserve  you.  Land  safely.  For  me,  I  go 
down,  all  standing,  with  the  steamer." 

llie  oaptain  and  remaining  passengers,  afraid  to  delay,  leaped  at  last 
from  the  side,  and,  supported  on  planks  in  the  calm  sea,  struck  out 
boldly  in  the  direction  of  that  cruel  shore.  Malin  Head,  with  its  stern 
grim  walls  of  naked  rock,  still  showed  dimly  through  the  rolling  mist ; 
but  the  fog  was  gathering  denser  and  thicker  once  more  now.  Moham- 
mad Ali,  with  his  arms  folded  like  a  statue,  stood  calm  and  unmoved 
beside  the  fallen  firemen.     At   two   hundred  yards  off,  the  captain 

{)au8ed  in  his  swim  and  looked  back.  The  water  had  risen  then  to  the 
evel  of  the  deck,  and  the  City  of  Savannah  was  sinking  fast  in  a  swirl- 
ing eddy.  It  had  sunk  to  the  level  of  the  Indian's  knees.  The  captain 
could  just  decry  two  crossed  arms,  one  black  hand  folded  above  a  grey 
tweed  sleeve,  and  the  gleam  of  a  diamond  that  shone  like  a  star  in  the 
light  reflected  from  the  lamp  at  the  mast-head.  Next  moment  the  fog 
intervened  to  hide  him  ;  the  water  rushed  over  the  spot  where  he  stood 
with  a  noise  like  a  whirlpool  ;  the  sea-gulls  hovered  about  the  sunken 
masts  ;  and  that  was  the  last  the  captain  ever  saw  of  Mohammad  Ali. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

The  boat  in  which  Ivan  Royle  had  been  hurried  away  from  the  wreck 
of  the  Oity  of  Savannah,  more  than  half  against  his  will,  made  for  the 
shore  by  Malin  Head  as  fast  as  ten  good  pairs  of  stout  oars  could  carry 
it  forward.  If  possible,  they  wished  to  land  the  passengers  near  the 
Head,  and  return  in  time  to  take  the  remainder  of  the  officers  an^ 
crew  from  the  wreck  before  she  sank  in  deep  w^ter.     But  landing  on 


254  TBB  devil's  DIl. 

that  bleak  and  eloan-out  Donegal  coast,  except  in  the  Loughs,  is  well< 
nigh  impossible.  The  outliers  of  Slieve  Guaght  descend  by  a  leap  to 
the  water's  edge,  from  a  giddy  height ;  and  tne  boat  once  caught  be- 
tween breakers  and  rocks  on  that  deadly  seaboard  must  inevitably  be 
dashed  to  pieces,  a  helpless  hull,  against  the  solid  foot  of  the  tall  black 
foreland.  They  were  compelled,  therefore,  to  row  round  into  the  deep 
bay  at  the  entrance  to  Lough  Swilly,  and  after  six  hours'  hard  work  at 
the  oars,  feeling  their  way  doubtfully  through  the  mist,  they  found,  at 
last,  a  possible  beach  about  ten  miles  north  of  the  desolate  little  fishing 
village  of  Lower  Duncreagh. 

The  passengers  in  Ivan's  boat  were  landed  alone  on  a  harbourless 
shore,  ten  miles  from  anywhere,  with  hardly  even  the  hut  of  aDcmegal 
peasant  in  sight,  high  up  the  slopes  of  the  green  mountains,  but  with  a 
path  opening  up  the  glen  behind  them  which  led  at  last  (though  they 
did  not  know  it)  to  the  shieldings  of  Duncreagh  and  the  town  of  Bun- 
crana.  For  the  present,  accordingly,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  camp  out  as  they  were  on  the  open  coast,  while  a  few  of  the 
stronger  and  heartier  men  made  their  way  inland  l)y  the  path  over  the 
neighbouring  hills  in  search  of  help  and  food  for  the  party  from  the 
nearest  village.  Donegal  is  indeed  a  bad  country  on  which  to  be 
wrecked.  It  can  hardly  feed  its  own  hardy  natives,  let  alone  a  hungry 
band  of  strangers.  The  sea  is  rough  ;  the  shore  is  steep  ;  the  land  if 
lean  ;  the  hills  are  rocky  ;  and  the  human  habitations  are  few  and  far 
between  on  the  broken  ledges  of  the  wan  green  mountains. 

To  Ivan  Royle,  however,  none  of  these  questions  for  the  moment  had 
any  interest.  One  burning  desire  alone  possessed  his  soul — the  desire 
to  go  back  again  in  quest  of  Ali.  At  first,  the  sailors  were  most  un- 
willing to  allow  him  ;  they  meant  to  put  back  to  the  wreck  thomselvei 
in  hot  haste,  they  said,  to  see  if  they  could  pick  up  any  drowning  men 
on  spars  or  planks — for  the  City  of  Savannah  herself  must  have  foun- 
dered long  since — but  it  was  against  the  company's  rules  for  any  pas- 
senger, once  landed,  to  be  exposed  to  further  unnecessary  danger. 
Ivan  pleaded  so  hard,  however,  for  the  right  to  return,  oflforing  to  take 
an  oar  if  the  officer  would  permit  him,  that  at  last  the  authorities 
reluctantly  consented. 

The  morning  light  was  breaking  now  over  that  beautiful,  treacherous 
coast  of  Donegal.  The  pale  green  hills,  from  head  to  foot  one  mass  of 
thick  short  turf,  rising  to  the  sky  in  bald  round  summits,  like  gigantic 
domes,  and  sheared  off  close  to  the  water's  edge  in  colossal  precipices, 
stood  out  in  clear  outline  against  the  blue  overhead,  and  showed  to  the 
full  all  their  stern  wild  beauty.  The  mist  and  fog  had  disappeared  at 
last,  and  the  sun  rose  majestical  in  his  glory  from  the  sea,  with  crimson 
clouds  to  herald  his  coming,  and  purple  reflections  to  greet  his  rays  on 
the  flanks  of  the  mountains.  But  the  men  rowed  on  as  if  for  dear  life, 
never  stopping  to  gaze  at  those  wonderful  cliffs  or  those  towering  pin- 
nacles of  black  Irish  trachyte.  They  were  bound  for  the  wreck,  on  an 
errand  of  mercy,  and  Ivan  Royle's  whole  soul  summed  itself  up  in  one 
wild  impulse — the  eager  desire  to  save  Mohammad  Ali. 

On«  ou  tlvey  drove  their  stout  boat  through  the  blue  sea,  now  wrefttll- 


THB  devil's   DIB.  266 

Ing  and  curling  in  light  loppy  waves,  for  the  breeze  wa«  rising  fresh 
with  the  sun,  as  the  fog  cleared  off,  abreast  all  the  time  of  the  great 
black  cliffs,  till  the  final  promontory  of  Malin  Head  itself  loomed  large 
and  frowning  on  the  right  beside  them.  They  were  nearly  at  the  scene 
of  the  wreck  now  ;  the  officer  in  charge  had  noted  it  well  through  the 
rift  in  the  fog  before  they  started,  with  Malin  Head  light  and  the  old 
windmill  m  a  line  to  eastward,  and  the  jagged  cliff  like  a  lion's  head 
bearing  a  point  or  two  west  of  the  peak  of  Slievo  Carrow.  Ivan  lloyle 
looked  eagerly  around.  The  water  was  strewn  with  floating  wreckage 
—  deck-chairs  and  spars,  and  here  and  there  a  plank  or  two,  but  no 
sign  anywhere  of  the  City  of  Savannah.  "  Sunk,  dead,  in  thirty 
fathoms  of  water,"  the  officer  muttered,  with  a  shake  of  his  head. 
*'  Wo  must  cruise  about  a  bit  now  to  pick  up  the  bodies." 

They  rowed  around,  examining  with  care  every  bit  of  wreckage  that 
drifted  across  their  path,  and  e training  their  sight  for  distant  objects, 
but  not  a  token  of  a  human  corpse  greeted  their  inquiring  eyes  any- 
where. 

"They  may  have  swum  for  shore,"  the  oflBcer  said,  as  with  hand  to 
his  eyes  he  scanned  the  horizon.  **  The  captain  would  deal  them  all 
out  life-preservers.  In  a  calm  sea  like  the  one  we  had  last  night  they 
could  round  the  Head  with  the  flowing  tide,  and  they  may  have  climbed 
on  the  ledges  of  the  cliffs  round  the  corner. 

It  was  a  gleam  of  hope,  though  a  very  faint  one,  and  Ivan  accepted 
it  accordingly  as  some  modicum  of  comfort.  He  tried  to  believe  it. 
Ali  was  tough,  and  had  lived  through  much.  Perhaps  he  had  lived 
through  this  also. 

They  rowed  round  Malin  Head  with  groaning  oars,  against  wind  and 
current,  and  scanned  the  cliffs.  No  sign  of  anything  bigger  than  a 
puflin  anywhere  on  their  tall  and  shallow  ledges. 

As  they  weathered  the  Head,  a  small  fishing  smack  hove  full  in  sight 
round  the  rocky  shore  of  Innistrahull.  She  bore  down  upon  them  at 
once,  scudding  easily  before  the  light  easterly  breeze.  When  they  liad 
got  within  speaking  distance,  the  boat  hailed  her.  "Ahoy,  there, 
Friend  I     Any  survivors  picked  up  from  the  City  of  Savannah}" 

A  familiar  voice  answered  from  the  deck  ;  "  Yes,  here  we  are,  all  of 
us.  Smack  picked  us  up  off  the  Head  this  morning.  We'd  taken  to 
the  planks.  Grew  all  safe.  Come  aboard  and  report  where  you  landed 
passengers." 

It  was  the  captain  who  spoke.  Then  there  was  hope  still.  Ivan 
Royle  lifted  up  his  voice  and  shouted  tremulously,  "  Have  you  saved 
Doctor  Ali  1 " 

The  captain  shook  his  head  with  an  ominous  shake.  "No,"  he  ans- 
wered ;  "  the  doctor's  lost.  Our  only  i)assenger  gone.  His  own  fault. 
He  went  down  standing  aboard  the  Savannah.  She's  sunk  about  two 
miles  sow'-wost-by-west  of  Malin  Head,  in  thirty  fathoms.  Most  of 
the  rest^are  safe,  I  believe,  bar  the  firemen.  We're  cruising  about  to 
pick  up  the  bodies." 

Ivan  raised  his  head  and  cried  once  more,  "  Are  you  sure  he's  lent  ?  " 

**  Certain  of  it     He  wouldn't  be  saved.     Saw  him  go  down  mynelf 


256  THE  devil's  die. 

on  the  deck  of  the  steamer.  He  was  the  very  last  man  left  living 
aboard.  He  waited  on  deck  till  the  water  was  rising  right  above  the 
companion.  Then  the  rest  of  us  threw  ourselves  off  with  life-belts  and 
swam  for  it.  The  doctor  wouldn't.  He  stopped  behind  ;  and  we  saw 
him  go  down  with  our  own  eyes,  the  Savannah  and  he,  and  a  couple  of 
wounded  firemen.  He  was  standing  with  his  arms  crossed  on  dock  ; 
and  he  said  something  about  its  being  all  fate  ;  and  he  died  like  a  man, 
right  there  on  the  quarterdeck,  with  the  two  disabled  firemen  lying 
huddled  in  front  of  him." 

Ivan  Rovle  laid  down  his  oar  and  burst  into  tears  like  a  child  or  a 
woman.  Dangers  and  difficulties  faced  together  had  made  those  two 
into  adopted  brothers.  No  man  ever  wept  more  truly  for  a  brother 
than  Ivan  Royle  for  Mohammad  Ali. 

And  how  they  had  longed  to  see  the  clifis  of  Ireland  t 


CHAPTER  L. 

In  the  club  at  Londonderry,  Colonel  Arthur  Mayne  sat  lounging  and 
smoLing  with  some  brother-officers  and  a  small  group  of  appreciative 
civilians.  One  of  them,  seated  in  a  chair  by  himself  at  the  far  end, 
was  greedily  devouring  Seeta's  latest,  that  strange  weird  story  of  a  lost 
love,  "  Winifred's  Doom,"  in  which  her  brother  recognized,  with  a 
shudder  of  dislike,  some  faint  echoes  of  her  own  life  and  her  hopeless 
passion  for  dead  Harry  Chichele.  The  others  were  on  their  legs,  chat- 
ting in  a  group  round  the  bow  window  ;  and  one  burly  fellow,  the 
major  of  the  regiment,  cigar  in  mouth,  was  examining  the  board  with 
the  latest  telegrams  from  London  posted  as  they  came  in  for  members' 
inspection. 

"  Devilish  awkward  thing  this,"  the  major  said,  removing  the  cigar 
carelessly  from  his  mouth  for  a  second,  *'  about  the  loss  of  that  steamer, 
the  City  of  Savannah,  The  sea's  as  dangerous  as  the  land  in  Ireland, 
nowadays.  Telegram  from  Greencastle,  just  come  in,  reports  another 
boat-load  of  passengers  landed  near  Buncrana.  Shouldn't  be  surprised 
if  they  sterve  outright  over  there,  do  you  know.  Buncrana  can  hardly 
sui)ply  itself  with  potatoes,  let  alone  feeding  a  miscellaneous  crew  of 
hungry  Americans.  The  Sligo  election's  gone  the  wrong  way,  too,  I 
see.  Deuced  awkward  for  the  Government  just  at  this  juncture,  a 
mesa  like  that.  Got  a  light  anywhere  about  you,  Mayne  ?  Thank  you. 
Thank  you.  These  are  capital  weeds  of  yours,  upon  my  soul.  But  you 
always  do  have  the  best  of  weeds,  and  no  wonder.  I  wouldn't  like  to 
be  your  tobacconist,  though,  poor  devil  !  It  must  cost  him  something 
tidy  per  annum  to  keep  you  supplied  with  weeds  of  this  quality." 

Arthur  Mayne  laughed  an  uneasv  laugh.  **I  wonder,"  he 
■aidf  roping  the  pointed  ends  of  his  moustache  with  a  depre- 
Mfcory    imiftt,    *'  wnether    that    City   of  Savannah's    the    ship    my 


Tfll  DBYIL'S  DIS.  SO  7 

cousin,  Ivan  Royle,  and  that  Baboo  friend  of  his,  were  coming  home 
in  ?  Royle  has  a  capacity  that  amounts  to  positive  genius  for  getting 
into  scrapes,  you  know.  Adventures  are  to  the  adventurous,  the  pro- 
verb says  ;  and  if  there's  a  row  or  an  adventure  on  anywhere,  my  cousin 
Ivan's  cock-sure  to  be  brandishing  his  shillelagh,  or  at  least  his  palette, 
in  the  very  thick  of  it.  He  and  his  chocolate-coloured  Baboo  fellow  are 
for  ever  catching  cholera,  or  getting  shipwrecked,  or  losing  themselves 
in  trackless  deserts,  or  being  blown  up  with  ten  tons  of  dynamite,  or 
something  of  that  sort,  by  way  of  amusement.  The  train  they  take's 
certain  to  smash  up  ;  the  ship  they  sail  in's  safe  to  collide  ;  the  hotel 
they  stop  at's  bound  to  be  burnt  down  ;  and  the  house  they  live  in's 
doomed  to  tumble  incontinently  with  a  crash  about  their  ears.  It's  a 
sort  of  fate  that  pursues  some  people.  I'd  lay  any  one  of  you  mellows 
two  to  one  in  fivers  that  Boyle  and  the  Baboo  were  on  the  Oity  of 
Savannah.** 

**  Hard  cash,  «r  paper  ? "  the  burly  major  inquired,  with  a  knowing 
smile. 

His  superior  officer  winced  visibly.  "Hard  cash,"  he  answered, 
with  as  careless  an  air  as  he  could  well  muster.  "I'm  flush  just  now — 
for  me,  I  mean.  I've  received  remittances.  But  I  should  most  partiou' 
larly  like  to  know  whether  the  Baboo  really  went  down  in  that  ship  or 
didn't." 

'*  It  appears  to  me,"  one  of  the  younger  civilians  observed  philoso- 
phically, "  the  colonel  must  have  been  crossed  in  love  by  that  mild 
Hindoo.  He  seems  to  harbour  some  mysterious  grudge  against  him. 
The  other  day,  when  a  telegram  in  the  Northern  Whig  announced  in 
big  letters,  *  Earthquake  in  America.  Death  of  Mr.  Ivan  Royle  and 
Dr.  Mohammad  Ali,'  the  colonel  was  quite  chirpy  for  a  couple  of  even- 
ings over  the  mild  Hindoo's  supposed  disappearance.  He  stood  us  a 
bottle  of  champagne  at  dinner  on  the  strength  of  it.  And,  when  a  day 
or  two  later  the  earth  opened  and — hi,  presto  I — like  a  scene  in  the 
pantomime,  threw  them  both  up  again,  the  colonel  looked  as  if  he'd 
lust  trumped  his  partner's  best,  or  taken  miss  without  a  decent  card  in 
it.  He  said  some  fellows  required  a  confounded  lot  of  killing,  and 
Baboos  never  died  except  to  spite  you  when  you  happened  playfully  to 
dig  them  in  the  ribs  for  a  dereliction  of  duty.  Depend  upon  it,  the 
colonel  has  some  reason  of  his  own  for  cherishing  envy,  hatred,  malice, 
and  all  uncharitableness  against  the  benevolent  Mussulman." 

"  Perhaps,"  the  major  suggested,  with  a  long  puff  at  the  big  cigar 
"  Mayne  may  have  lost  at  cards  to  the  Baboo." 

The  colonel  threw  away  his  stump  angrily.  Some  jests  make  quite 
too  close  a  shave  of  the  truth.  *'  You  fellows  are  devilish  hard  on  me 
t4ii3  afternoon,"  he  said  peevishly.  *'  Roylo's  a  cousin  of  mine — I've 
known  him  from  a  child — and  I'm  naturally  interested  to  find  oul 
whether  he's  been  wrecked  or  not.  And  as  to  the  Baboo,  I've  always 
said  he  was  as  decent  a  fellow  for  a  born  nigger  as  I  ever  came  across. 
Poole,  will  you  kindly  touch  the  bell  for  me.  Any  of  you  men  care  to 
ijo  halves  in  a  split  soda  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  club  servant  bropght  in  a  telegram  and  handed  it 

a?) 


968  THE    devil's   Din. 

with  an  obsequious  inclination  to  the  colonel.  Arthur  Mayne  took  it 
carelessly  from  the  salver,  and  broke  open  the  envelope.  He  whistled 
as  he  read  it.  "Whew,"  he  said.  "It's  from  my  sister,  Poole. 
*  Ivan  Royle  and  Mohammad  Ali  were  passengers  on  board  the  City  of 
Savaitnah.  Go  down  at  once  to  the  wreck  and  look  for  them.  Tele- 
graph earliest  news  at  once.  Seeta.'  My  sister's  a  oner  for  the 
imperative  mood,  isn't  she?  but  1  su[)p()se  1  must  do  as  my  command- 
ing officer  bids  me,  for  I  also  am  a  num  under  authority.  Look  here, 
Poole,  I  must  get  leave  for  this.  We  can't  allow  these  two  poor  fel- 
lows to  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  deep  blue  sea  without  so  much  aa 
holding  out  a  hand  to  save  them." 

Drowning  men  clutch  at  straws.  Colonel  Mayne  was  clutching  at  a 
straw  now.  When  the  cable  flashed  over  news  of  Mohammad  All's 
supposed  death  in  the  earthquake  at  Eagle  City,  he  thought  to  himself 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  delight,  "  Thank  heaven,  the  debt  between  ua 
is  a  debt  of  honour.  That  amiable  Baboo  said  himself,  '  repayable 
whenever  you  find  it  convenient.'  A  most  excellent  Baboo,  I  must 
admit.  And  he  promised  me  his  father  should  know  nothing  about  it 
— exceedingly  gentlemanly  of  him  to  keep  it  quiet  from  his  father—  in 
case  of  accident.  It's  very  timely,  too,  his  popping  off.in  this  sudden 
way — devilish  timely,  I  call  it,  poor  fellow.  Of  course,  I  shall  pay 
back  the  old  boy  at  Saharanpur,  or  MoozuflFernugger,  or  wherever  he 
lives,  as  soon  as  possible.  I  shall  pay  him  in  the  end  every  blessed 
rupee  of  it.  I  shall  pay  him  when  I  make  my  haul  on  that  moral  for 
the  Cambridgeshire  that  Poole  told  me  about.  But  for  the  present, 
I  needn't  bother  any  more  about  the  matter.  Sufficient  unto  the  day 
IB  the  evil  thereof.  That  cheque  Seeta  sent  me  the  other  morning — 
good  girl,  Seeta — I  suppose  it's  the  produce  of  '  Winifred's  Doom  ' — 
though  I  hate  the  story — will  do  to  meet  those  bills  of  Watkins  and 
Moulton's  ;  and  the  Sayyid  can  whistle  for  his  money  indefinitely.  It 
does  a  money-lender  good  to  whistle  ;  he  makes  the  more  out  of  us  in 
the  end,  old  devil  !  "  But  when  the  later  telegram  arrived  three  days 
after,  with  the  crushing  news  that  Mohammad  Ali  wasn't  dead  at  all, 
but  alive  and  well,  and  on  his  way  back  again  hurriedly  to  England, 
Arthur  Mayne  experienced  on  the  spot  a  most  disagreeable  sensation  of 
surprise  and  annoyance,  the  meanness  and  sordid  selfishness  of  which 
he  himself  fully  appreciated.  The  Indian  had  done  him  a  great  service  ; 
and  in  return.  Colonel  Mayne,  who  held  himself,  of  course,  by  right  of 
birth,  infinitely  superior  to  the  chocolate-coloured  Baboo  fellow,  hug- 
ged thd  news  of  his  death  as  a  personal  gain,  and  was  cordially  dis- 
gustttd  at  his  inopportune  revival  as  a  personal  inconvenience.  Dead 
men  do  wrong  ever  to  return  again.  The  living  are  always  apt  to  find 
themselves  an  awkward  encumbrance. 

And  now  the  pendulum  had  swung  round  once  more.  There  was  a 
chance  that  Mohammad  Ali  had  been  really  drowned.  If  so,  that 
modest  little  loan  of  the  Sayyid's  might  hang  over  in  future  for  an 
indefinite  period.  But  if  not,  then  Seeta,  instead  of  presenting  her 
•heques  indirectly  through  her  brother,  might,  perhaps,  take  it  into 
her  flighty  head  to  hand  them  over  to  Ali  in  person.     Women 


THE  devil's  DIB.  259 

alythyn  so  unreasonably  suspicious.  Colonel  Mayne  had  learnt  by  this 
time  to  look  upon  his  sister  as  a  bank  \\  here  you  were  allowed  to  over- 
draw at  pleasure  ;  and  he  resented  the  diversion  of  any  of  his  own  pro- 
spective private  funds  into  the  pockets  of  a  mere  outside  creditor  like 
Mohammad  Ali.  Seeta's  business  was  to  work  and  earn  ;  Arthur 
Mayne,  that  consummate  gentleman,  with  magnanimous  generosity, 
undertof)k  to  save  her  the  bother  and  worry  of  looking  about  for  a  safe 
investment. 

However,  if  Seeta  said  "Go,"  he  knew  he  must  go — it  was  bo 
important  to  conciliate  Seeta.  The  power  of  the  purse  has  brought 
kings  to  their  knees.  So  before  evening,  Arthur  Mayne,  who  was  not 
a  king,  but  merely  a  most  impecunious  colonel  of  a  marching  regiment, 
had  secured  a  few  days'  leave  '*  on  urgent  private  business,"  had  chart- 
ered a  yacht  then  and  there  lying  idle  for  hire  in  the  lough,  and  was  ofl 
with  a  friend  on  the  lopping  sea  round  to  Buncrana. 

As  they  neared  the  village  at  the  foot  of  its  fiord,  they  found  two 
small  fishing  boats  engaged  in  hunting  about  among  the  refuse  for  bodies 
from  the  wreck.  On  one  of  them  Arthur  Mayne  recognized  at  once  a 
stalwart  English  figure  of  manly  build.  It  was  Ivan  Royle,  busy  still 
on  his  hopeless  search  for  poor  All's  body.  He  had  sent  his  scouts 
along  the  base  of  the  clifis  for  miles  in  open  boats,  thinking  that  the  sea, 
in  its  wash  down  the  lough,  might  have  yielded  up  its  dead  to  the  land 
by  this  time  ;  but  no  tidings  of  Ali  could  be  heard  anywhere.  Ivan 
was  worn  out  with  toil  and  sorrow,  and  he  readily  accepted  Arthur 
Mayne's  invitation  to  transfer  himself  to  the  yacht,  and  cruise  about 
over  the  scene  of  the  wreck  to  continue  his  hunt  for  his  friend's  body. 
Arthur  was  interested  in  the  search  too,  with  a  squalid  interest  which 
he  hardly  confessed,  even  to  himself  in  his  own  bosom. 

When  they  reached  the  point  of  Malin  Head  again,  they  found  the 
divers  hard  at  work  on  the  scene  of  the  wreck,  bringing  up  mail  bags 
soaked  with  brine,  and  searching  for  corpses  among  the  ooze  of  the 
bottom.  The  captain  of  the  Savannah  was  with  them,  too,  suprintend- 
ing  operations  and  directing  the  divers  to  the  most  important  and 
likely  parts  of  the  sunken  steamer.  Happily,  the  sea  continued  moder- 
ately calm,  and  seas  run  off  the  coast  of  Donegal,  so  that  the  work  of 
recovery  was  never  for  a  moment  interrupted.  Ivan  and  his  companion 
moored  their  yacht  in  the  shallowest  water  anywhere  about,  and  waited 
with  sickening  and  morbid  expectation  for  the  final  result  of  the  diving 
and  dredging. 

All  the  firemen  in  the  capsize*^  it  had  been  drowned  at  once,  as  well 
as  one  or  two  steerage  passenger-s  ho  had  flung  themselves  over  madly 
into  the  sea  in  the  first  wild  panic  and  bustle  of  the  collision.  The  brig, 
too,  heavily  laden  as  she  was  with  coal,  had  sunk  on  the  spot  with  all 
hands,  so  that  several  bodies  were  slowly  recovered,  one  by  one,  about 
the  scene  of  the  disaster.  Dredging  for  corpses  is  a  sickening  sight. 
Death  never  comes  in  an  uglier  guise  than  on  the  sea  bottom.  Besides, 
most  of  them  were  thickly  grimed  and  black  with  coal,  which  made  it 
all  the  easier  to  mistake  Uiem  at  first  sight  for  the  body  of  a  black  man. 
As  each  swollen  and  waterlogged  corpse,  a  hideous  burden,  was  raised 


260  THB   DEVIL'S   DI8. 

fco  the  surface,  after  long  groping  for  hours  together,  Ivan  Royle  »nd 
Arthur  Mayne  scanned  its  face  anxiously — Ivan  praying  in  his  soul 
that  it  might  not  be  Ali's,  for  he  still  cherished  a  wild  hope  that,  the 
Indian  by  some  strange  miracle  might  have  swum  ashore  ;  and  Arthur 
Mayne,  less  consciously  to  himself,  praying  in  his  soul  it  might  be  his 
noble  and  generous  creditor,  and  that  he  might  thus  be  saved  the 
unpleasant  necessity  for  immediate  repayment  of  the  borrowed  money. 
But  body  after  body  was  recovered  in  vain,  so  far  as  those  two  eager 
watchers  were  concerned.  They  had  as  yet  no  clue  to  Ali's  fate  ;  and 
in  spite  of  the  captain's  solemn  asseveration  that  he  had  seen  the 
Indian  actually  sinking  in  the  eddying  sea,  Ivan  continued  in  his  mad 
hope,  and  Arthur  Mayne  in  his  craven  fear  of  another  unnatural  and 
ghastly  disappointment* 

At  last,  after  a  thret  days'  hunt,  a  twelfth  body  was  recovered  from 
the  wreck.  The  divers  had  found  it  under  the  hole  in  the  side  where  the 
Oity  of  Savannah  was  stove  in  by  the  collision.  It  had  evidently  rolled 
there  of  its  own  weight  as  the  steamer  heeled  over  from  side  to  side, 
with  the  swirl  of  sinking.  The  captain,  glancing  at  it  with  his  keen 
eye,  recognized  the  body  as  they  raised  it  to  the  level.  It  was  fright- 
fully battered  on  the  face  and  head  with  repeated  wounds  of  some 
blunt  instrument.  The  throat  and  neck,  reduced  to  a  jelly  by  the 
blows  of  the  belaying-pins,  had  been  eaten  away  in  part  by  the  name- 
less carrion-feeders  of  the  sea-bottom  ;  but  even  so  its  livid  features 
and  ghastly  marks  were  quite  recognizable.  '*  That's  one  of  the  two 
that  lay  on  deck,"  the  captain  said,  "  as  I  saw  her  sink.  Dr.  Ali  was 
standing  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast  right  above  them." 

Ivan  groaned.  "  Then  the  place  to  look  for  Doctor  Ali's  body," 
he  cried  to  the  divers,  "  is  just  beside  the  spot  where  you  found  this 
one.     Fifty  pounds  to  the  man  who  brings  it  up  to  me." 

Arthur  Mayne  was  afraid  to  add  that  he,  for  his  part,  would  gladly 
have  made  it  up  to  a  hundred.  Such  miracles  of  baseness  are  men 
sometimes. 

The  divers  went  to  work  harder  than  ever  at  this,  but  hour  after 
hour  passed  in  vain,  and  they  seemed  no  nearer  a  clue  than  ever.  That 
evening,  about  four  o'clock,  a  sharp  breeze  sprang  up  from  the  west ; 
and,  fearing  to  beat  about  on  the  weathe;-.  side  of  Malin  Head  in  an 
Atlantic  gale,  Ivan  and  his  cousin  put  their  helm  down  the  lough,  and 
{lro|t(>ed  anchor  just  off  Greencastle. 

llure,  a  report  thai  the  body  of  a  black  man  from  the  wreck  had  been 
liiken  to  Derry  harbour,  sent  them  in  hot  haste  to  Londonderry,  but 
"It  enquiry  they  found  that  it  was  the  body  of  another  of  the  firemen  of 
LliB  lost  steamer — a  black  man,  but  not  Ali. 

'*  We  must  go  back  to  Greencastle  and  join  the  yacht,"  Ivan  said 
woarily.     "  I  can't  rest  till,  dead  or  alive,  I've  seen  Ali." 

It  was  growing  quite  dark  now.  Arthur  Mayne  touched  him  lightly 
ou  the  shoulder.  *'  My  dear  feUow,"  he  said  with  genuine  good-nature, 
"you're  just  worn  out,  and  you  mustn't  dream  of  going  any  further  to- 
night. There's  a  capital  hotel  close  here  in  Derry.  Let  me  take  yoa 
round  there  and  put  you  into  rooms  ;  then  you  shall  cume  ftnd  (UUt 


THB  DETIL'B   DIH  261 

with  me  at  the  club,  and  to-morrow,  after  a  good  night's  rest,  we  can 
Bet  out  again  to  look  for  the  body  of  your  poor  black  fellow." 

Ivan  wa8  too  wearied  to  make  any  demur.  They  drove  back  in 
silence,  side  by  side,  to  the  hotel.  Ivan's  heart  was  full  to  bursting. 
This  awful  suspense  was  far  more  trying  to  him  than  the  worst  reality 
could  ever  have  been. 


CHAPTER  LL  ^ 

In  the  hall  of  th©  hotel,  a  tall  stranger;  with  a  round  hat,  clad  in  an 
ill-fitting  suit  of  ready-made  clothes,  was  standing  with  his  back  turned 
toward  them,  in  close  conversation  with  the  clerk  at  the  office.  "  No- 
Burr,  he's  not  come  in,"  the  clerk  was  remarking  carelessly.  "The 
pe-aper  reports  he  was  landed  all  safe  ;  but  he's  cruising  about  wid  a 
yacht  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  accident.  They  say  he's  looking 
for  a  friend  he's  lost.  But  niver  a  friend  he'll  find  on  the  coast  of 
Donegal.  However,  I'll  take  a  note  of  yer  name,  in  case  Mr.  Royle 
should  happen  to  call  an'  ask  for  ye.     Your  name  is ?  " 

The  tall  stranger  answered  in  a  breath,   "  Dr.  Mohammad  Ali." 

Ivan  rushed  up  to  him  with  a  heart  beating  five  hundred  to  the 
minute.  '*Ali,  Ali,*'  he  cried,  clapping  his  hand  eagerly  on  the 
speaker's  arm.     *'  Is  it  you  ?    Are  you  saved,  then  ? " 

The  Indian  turned  round  and  grasped  his  hand  with  friendly  warmth 
It  was  indeed  Ali  !  *'  Unfortunately,  yes,"  he  said,  with  a  subdued 
light  gleaming  in  his  big  black  eyes.  "Kismet,  kismet.  It  snot  my 
fault.  Fate  so  willed  it.  I  assure  you,  I  did  the  very  best  I  could  to 
get  myself  drowned  in  an  unobtrusive  way,  without  actually  flinging 
myself  oflF  like  a  stone  into  the  ocean.  But  just  as  the  water  was 
rising  comfortably  around  us,  and  there  was  every  chance  on  earth  of 
my  being  put  out  of  the  road  without  unnecessary  trouble  or  incon- 
venience to  any  one  anywhere,  a  meddlesome  little  steam  tug  came 
prying  pfist  at  the  critical  moment  and  took  me  off — took  me  ofl'  as  I 
stood  on  deck  at  the  last  gasp,  with  the  sea  just  surging  and  seething 
like  mad  around  me.  It  was  most  inopportune.  I  did  think  I  was 
really  going  that  time.  I've  been  near  enough  death  on  occasion,  as 
you  know,  but  never  so  near  as  I  was  that  night  on  the  wreck  of  i  lie 
tSavaniiah." 

"  Oh,  Ali,  but  how  did  you  come  here  f '  Ivan  asked, wringing  lus  hand 
hard  still,  in  the  fervour  of  his  excitement.  "  We've  been  hunting 
for  you  up  and  down  these  three  days  through  all  the  coasts  and 
loughs  of  Donegal." 

"  Oh,  my  too  friendly  steam-tug  belonged  to  the  port  of  Dublin," 
Ali  answered,  smiling — for  every  man  likes  to  know  that  he's  juissed  ; 
**  and  we  paddled  round  in  a  leisurely  way,  wasting  no  coaU  on  the 
road  in  riotous  steaming.  As  soon  as  I  was  safely  landed  at  North 
Quay,  I  began  waking  inc^uiries  abgut  yuu  f rop^  all  parties,  and  heai-ing 


262  THE  DEVIL'S  DIB. 

nothing,  I  telegraphed  to  Colonel  Mayne  here  at  the  club  in  Deny. 
Oolonel,  you  never  took  any  notice  of  my  telegrams. " 

Arthur  Mayne,  in  a  very  sheepish  and  shamefaced  way,  thus  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  man  whose  death  he  had  been  secretly  desiring, 
explained  briefly  that  he  had  been  away  in  a  yacht  cruising  with  Ivan, 
on  the  look-out  for  survivors  of  the  City  of  Savannah.  "  We  only 
came  up  here  this  evening,"  he  added  lightly,  "  to  see  your  corpse  ; 
we've  been  agreeably  surprised  to  find  it  looking  so  fresh  and  lively." 

**  Thank  you,"  Ali  answered,  with  a  faintly  sarcastic  intonation  of 
voice.  He  saw  too  deep  into  Arthur  Mayne's  inmost  feelings.  "  Ivaii, 
you  look  terribly  worn  and  fagged.  You're  run  down,  I  see.  You've 
been  hunting  too  much  for  such  a  worthless  find  as  I  am." 

•'  Well,  now,"  Colonel  Mayne  said,  with  a  gallant  attempt  to  be 
genial  and  pleasant  under  adverse  circumstances,  *'you  two  fellows  '11 
come  round  and  dine  at  the  club  to-night  with  me.  You'll  be  glad  of 
a  meal  on  dry  land.  Doctor  Ali,  all  our  men  are  simply  dying  to  meet 
you.  Your  name  has  been  in  everybody's  mouth  for  the  last  three 
weeks.  You'll  find  yourself  quite  the  lion  of  the  situation.  It  isn't 
every  day  that  we  get  sight  of  a  man  who  has  been  twice  dead  and 
twice  resurrected." 

*'  You're  very  kind,"  Ali  answered,  with  the  same  cold  and  haughty 
reserve  as  before  ;  *'  but  Ivan  and  I  are  both  tired.  We're  old  chums. 
We've  gone  through  a  great  deal  now  and  before  together.  We'd 
rather  spend  the  evening  alone,  I  think,  and  talk  it  all  out  by  our- 
selves in  camera.  Am  I  right,  Ivan  ? "  His  friend  nodded.  "Thanks, 
Colonel  Mayne.  We'll  stop  here,  if  you'll  allow  us,  and  discuss  things 
together  more  at  our  leisure." 

*'  When  did  you  get  here  ?"  Ivan  asked,  glancing  over  him  critically 
from  head  to  foot. 

Ali  laughed.  His  appearance  was  indeed  a  trifle  comical.  His  garb 
had  concealed  his  figure  at  first  sight  from  Ivan.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
Dublin  tailor's  ready-made  suit,  some  sizes  too  loose  for  him,  for  he 
was  tall  and  thin,  and  the  ready-made  tailor,  catering  for  all  chances, 
prefers  to  combine  stature  with  stoutness,  as  meeting  the  largest  pos- 
sible average  of  cases.  "Just  this  moment,"  he  answered.  "  I  had 
only  come  in  exactly  as  you  caught  me.  I  fitted  myself  out  in  this  neat 
and  commodious  set  of  apparel  at  Dublin,  being  soaked  through  and 
torn  to  rags  with  the  wreck  and  the  rescue  ;  and  then,  as  I  got  no  news 
from  Colonel  Mayne  about  you  and  your  fate,  I  took  the  first  train  on 
and  came  straight  through  at  a  run  to  Londonderry.  To-night  we 
must  sleep  here,  Ivan,  to  rest  and  refresh  you  a  bit  before  we  take  you 
over.  My  duty  is  to  present  you  looking  your  best,  and  to-morrow  we 
must  cross  by  Lame  and  Stranraer,  so  as  to  reach  Polperran  as  early 
as  possible." 

"Polperran  I"  Arthur  Mayne  echoed  in  surprise.  "Then  you're 
going  down  to  Cornwall,  to  whore  Seeta's  stopping  I  " 

Ivan  and  Ali  both  started  back.  They  took  it  for  granted  so  much 
themselves  they  were  goin^  to  QofUWftU  tlukt  they  bad  laz)j;ott«a 
tnybody  elae  could  dQubt  iU 


THB  devil's  Dia  263 

••Yes,  Fm  going  to  Polperran,"  Ivan  answered  quietly.  "Seeta 
has  had  too  long  a  time  there  nursing  already.  Perhaps  I  may  be  able 
to  arrange  matters  with  Olwen  so  as  to  relieve  her  permanently  of  her 
duty." 

Arthur  Mayne  whistled.  A  light  broke  in  upon  him.  Then  Ivan  was 
in  love  with  that  pretty  little  Ohichele  woman  1  **  So  that's  the  way 
the  wind  blows,  is  it  ?  Well,  you  won't  come  round  and  try  the  club 
claret,  then '  "  he  said,  moving  to  go. 

*'  No,  thank  you,"  Ali  replied,  with  an  inclination  of  his  head. 
"  This  costume  alone  must  excuse  me,  please.  Ivan  and  I  have  much 
to  talk  about." 

When  they  were  left  alone  an  hour  later,  in  a  private  sitting-room  in 
the  comfortable  hotel  (there  are  three  comfortable  hotels  in  Ireland), 
Mohammad  Ali,  stirring  his  cup  of  coffee  reflectively,  said  with  a  quiet 
sigh  to  Ivan,  *  *  Well,  for  your  sake,  my  dear  fellow,  I'm  glad  I  wasn't 
drowned.  I  should  be  sorry  to  cause  you  any  needless  annoyance.  I 
see  it  would  have  made  you  very  unhappy — blighted  your  pleasure  at  a 
supreme  crisis.  If  anything  on  earth,  indeed,  could  reconcile  me  to 
life,  it  would  be  the  delight  you  showed  at  welcoming  me  back  to  it. 
But,  for  myself,  I  never  felt  more  dissatisfied  in  my  whole  existence 
than  when  that  obtrusive  fellow  with  his  inquisitive  steam-tug  came  up 
and  rescued  me  at  the  very  wrong  moment.  He  meant  well,  of  course, 
but  I  could  hardly  be  civil  to  him.  There,  I'd  settled  everything 
nicely  in  my  own  mind.  If  I'd  had  the  arrangement  of  the  whole 
thing  personally,  I  couldn't  have  managed  it  more  comfortably 
or  respectably.  Mrs.  Grundy  herself  could  have  found  nothing  to  cavil 
at.  At  the  exact  moment  when  I'd  fulfilled  my  sole  function  in  life  with 
dignityandsuccess,!  should  have  made  a  most  becoming  anddramaticezit, 
and  relieved  everybody  else  of  the  burden  of  my  presence.    Whereas 

now "  and  he  drew  a  long  breath  involuntarily.    The  prospect  wm 

certainly  far  from  a  cheerful  one. 

*'  Whereas  now,  what  ? "  Ivan  asked,  leaning  over  towards  him  with 
•  half-anxious  face. 

Ali  hesitated.     ' '  After  I  go  back  to  India ,"  he  began  quietly. 

**  Gro  back  to  India  1 "  Ivan  interposed  in  an  excited  tone.  **  Go 
back  to  India  1  Why,  Ali,  dear  Ali,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean  by  it  t 
Why  should  you  even  think  at  all  of  going  back  to  India  ? " 

Ali  answered  slowly  and  distinctly.  **  I  shall  stop  in  England,"  he 
said,  in  a  very  firm  tone,  "  till  I've  seen  this  matter  between  you  and 
Mrs.  Chichele  finally  settled.  I  don't  think  there  need  be  much  delay 
about  that.  No  just  cause  or  impediment  exists  why  these  two  persons 
should  not  now  be  joined  together  in  holy  matrimony,  as  your  prayer- 
book  puts  it.  You  know  your  own  mind,  and  she,  in  her  vague  half- 
shadowy  little  way,  knows  hers  also.  As  soon  as  things  are  definitely 
arranged  and  completea  between  you,  I  shall  return  to  India.  After 
all,  it  is  my  native  land.  *  Lives  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead,'  yoa 
know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  There  are  obvious  reasons,  indeed, 
why  I  should  prefer  to  go  home  again.  My  work  is  finished  here.  I 
hoped  to  be  done  with  life  altogether  QRly  four  nights  ago.    I  dida'l 


264  THE  devil's  dik. 

succeed  in  my  earnest  prayer  ;  and  now  I  see  India  is  the  best  alter 
native."  - 

"Why,  AH?" 

Ali  paused  for  a  moment.  "Because,"  he  replied  at  last,  with  eH 
dent  reluctance,  and  picking  his  phrases,  *'  I  feel  it  will  be  better  so 
for  all  of  us.  Ivan,  I  am  a  man.  After  all,  I'm  a  man.  A  black  one, 
if  you  will,  but  a  sort  of  man  at  bottom  for  all  that.  Now,  when  you 
and  Olwen — forgive  me  for  slipping  it  out ;  she's  always  Olwen  Lo  ine 
in  my  own  heart — when  you  and  she  are  married  together,  as  you  must 
be  shortly,  it  won't  be  pleasant  for  you,  I  can  easily  conceive,  that  1 
should  see  too  much  of  Olwen.  I'm  only  a  black  man,  I  acknowledge 
that ;  perhaps  I  make  too  much  of  myself  for  a  mere  black  man.  But 
still  I'm  a  man  ;  I  can't  help  feeling  it ;  and  I  believe  in  time  you,  too, 
would  begin  to  feel  it.  It  would  be  distasteful  to  you  then,  no  doubt, 
that  I  should  see  too  much  of  Olwen. " 

"Ali,  you  hurt  me  1  You  wound  my  pride  1  You  are  dearer  to  me 
than  my  own  flesh  and  blood.     How  can  you  think  I  could  be  so 

wicked,  so  ungrateful  ?    And  how  can  you  think "    He  paused 

significantly. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  Ali  answered  earnestly.  *'  I  never  thought  a 
single  thought  in  my  own  soul  about  that  pure  good  woman  that  wasn't 
as  pure  and  as  g«od  as  she  is.  No,  that's  not  it.  I'm  thinking  o£ 
nothing  so  coarse  or  brutal  or  unworthy  as  jealousy.  But  be  as  noble 
and  generous  and  brotherly  as  you  like,  it  cannot  be  pleasant  for  you 
in  the  time  to  come  to  meet  daily  in  your  own  house  as  a  familiar 
friend  and  constant  guest  the  man  who  has  told  you  he  loves  your  wife 
with  all  the  force  and  energy  of  his  nature.  If  it  were,  you  would  be 
more  than  human.  Because  you  are  a  man,  and  I  am  a  man,  I  mean 
to  go  back  immediately  to  India.  You  would  have  the  reason.  You 
have  wrung  it  from  me.  And  now  you  have  heard  it,  I  hope  you  don't 
hate  me." 

*'  Ali  1  "  Ivan  cried,  "if  yon  carry  out  your  threat,  you'll  wrench  my 
heart — my  heart  and  Olwen's.  You  have  been  to  us  both  more  than  a 
brother.  You  have  risked  your  life  for  us  with  noble  unselfishness. 
We  both  trust  you ;  we  both  admire  you  ;  I  may  say  to-night,  man  and 
man  as  we  are,  we  both  love  you.  After  all  that  has  happened  to  bind 
us  two  together,  you  and  me,  I  feel  sure  no  shadow  of  a  shade  of  such 
uneasiness  as  you  dream  would  ever  come  between  us  as  regards  your 
feelings  towards  Olwen.  I  know  exactly  how  devoted  you  are  to  her ; 
and  I  am  certain  that  devotion  could  never  cause  me  one  passing  pang 
or  twinge  of  misconception.  Ali,  I've  seen  through  and  through  you 
now.  I  saw  through  and  through  you  those  days  in  the  desert.  And 
I  thank  heaven  I  w£is  able  to  do  so.  I  know  there's  not  a  thought  or 
a  thrill  in  your  inmost  being  that  isn't  as  good  and  as  true  as  hers  are. 
If  only  she  knew  it,  you  are  ten  thousand  times  worthier  of  her  than  I 
am.  Promise  me,  Ali,  promise  me,  my  dear,  dear  friend,  you  won't 
mar  the  accomplished  happiness  of  my  life  by  going  away  from  her  and 
me,  for  ever,  to  India  1  " 

^li  imUed  »  tender  smile,  au  %  mother  smil^g  at  a  child  whose  wish 


TBI  devil's  dii.  265 

she  cannot  j?rant.  **  No,  no,  Ivan,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  quietly 
on  his  friend's  shoulder.  "  You  judge  me  too  highly.  I  feel  I  must 
go.  I  won't  put  your  friendship  and  your  enduran<w?  to  so  hard  a  test. 
I  would  wish  no  man  to  do  so  with  my  own,  I  coixfess,  and  I  haven't 
lived  so  long  in  England  without  learning  the  meaning  of  your  golden 
rule  better  than  nine  out  of  ten  of  your  English  Christians.  Remember, 
you  ran  away  from  temptation  yourself  to  America.  I,  too,  am  a  nia; . 
Let  me  feel  myself  such.  I  will  run  away  from  the  chance  of  mihup 
prehension  to  India." 

*'  You've  made  up  your  mind,  then  ?  " 

*'  Quite.  Irrevocably.  What  a  Moslem  says,  he  does,  fate  and 
weather  permitting  him." 

"But,  Ali,  India  will  be  death  in  life  to  you.  All  your  ideas  and 
feelings  are  Europeanized.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  isolated  there 
alone  among  bo  many  who  can  never  understand  you  or  sympathize 
with  you  in  any  way." 

*'  My  father  grows  old,"  Ali  answered  evasively.  **  He  would  natur- 
ally like  his  son  to  be  with  him." 

"But  shall  we  ever  see  you? — we,  to  whom  you  have  become  so 
much  ?  You  won't  go  away  and  desert  us  for  ever  ?  I'm  sure  to 
Olwen,  as  well  as  to  me,  it  would  be  a  terrible  privation.  Ali,  Ali,  we 
both  love  you  I  " 

*'  Not  so  great  a  privation  as  it  will  be  to  me,"  Ali  answered  bitterly. 
"  To  live  away  from  her  will  be  indeed  a  misery.  But  to  say  so  is  only 
all  the  more  to  sign  my  own  warrant  of  exile.  How  can  you  ever  wish 
me  to  stop  here  when  I  tell  you  I  feel  so  ? " 

Ivan  played  with  his  wine-glass  nervously.  "  But  why  India  ? "  he 
cried.  "  At  any  rate,  why  so  far  as  India  ?  There  are  other  places  in 
the  world,  you  know,  Ali,  besides  India  and  England." 

"  In  India,"  Ali  answered  with  perfect  gravity,  "  I'm  well  out  of  your 
way.  "  I'm  as  good  as  dead.  India,  in  short,  is  next  door  to  a  ceme- 
tery. Nobody  ever  drops  in  casually  for  a  morning  call  from  the 
North- West  Provinces  " 

*'  Why,  Ali,"  Ivan  cried,  laying  his  white  hand  persuasively  on  hii 
friend's  arm,  *'  that's  just  what  we  don't  want,  either  of  us,  I'm  certain. 
If  you  must  go,  why  not  go  somewhere  within  reason  ?  Somewhere  in 
Europe  where  you  might  sometimes  run  across  for  a  visit  to  me  and 
Olwen  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  be  as  dead,"  Ali  answered  sincerely.  *'  When  dead  men 
come  back  to  life  again,  they  are  seldom  welcome.  A  well-bred  ghost 
avoids  society.  Think  of  me  as  some  one  you  once  knew.  Why  should 
I  flit  like  a  spectre  round  your  heads  ?  Why  should  I  return  to  disturb 
your  happiness  ? " 

"In  Italy,"  Ivan  said,  "you  would  find  life  easier  for  you,  I'm  sure, 
than  in  India.  And  there  if  you  wouldn't  come  over  often  and  see  us, 
Olwen  and  I  could  at  least  pay  visits  to  you  whenever  we  wanted. 
There  could  be  no  fear  of  your  coming  too  often.  Do  make  it  Italy, 
fcr  our  sakes,  Ali  1 " 

AU  bowed  bit  bead  in  generous  acquiescence,    *'  Ital^  it  sSuUl  bt, 


J 


266  THB  devil's  DIB. 

then,'  he  murmured  in  a  very  low  voice.     "  And  I  shall  never  again 

return  to  England." 

"  But  you  won't  go  soon  1  You'll  wait  for  winter,  at  least,"  Ivan 
cried  eagerly. 

* '  I'll  take  you  to  Polperran  first  and  deliver  you  over  safely  to  Mrs. 
Chichele,  according  to  contract,"  Ali  replied,  with  a  sigh.  "I  pro- 
mised to  bring  you,  alive  or  dead,  and,  like  a  faithful  servant  of  the 
parcels  delivery  company,  I  fulfil  my  waybill.  Besides,  I  have  to 
return  her  this  pledge,  too,  you  know,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment, 
looking  down  regretfully  at  the  diamond  ring  that  still  glistened  brightly 
(m  his  dusky  finger.  It  would  grieve  him  to  the  heart  indeed  to  give 
that  pledge  back  again  to  Olwen. 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  ring,"  Ivan  said,  scanning  it  attentively  for  the 
twentieth  time,  and  noting  its  make  and  size  with  care,  for  a  purpose 
of  his  own.  "After  all,  Ali,  we're  both  of  us  reckoning  without  our 
hostess,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it.  How  on  earth  do  we  either  of 
us  know,  in  fact,  that  Olwen  will  accept  me  ?  " 

The  Indian  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sudden  start.  "  She  loves  you," 
he  said.  "  She  has  always  loved  you.  When  she  married  Harry  Chi- 
chile,  she  loved  you  best,  though  in  her  own  heart  even  she  never  knew 
it.  But  I  knew  it.  If  I  hadn't  been  absolutely  certain  of  that,  I  could 
never  have  gone  to  the  Sierras  to  find  you.  I  went  for  her  sake,  not 
for  yours.  I  shall  see  you  two  made  happy  together,  and  then,  a  week 
after,  I  shall  go  to  Italy." 

"  So  be  it,"  Ivan  said,  with  a  sigh  of  regret.  "Perhaps,  after  all, 
you  know  best,  Ali." 


CHAPTER  LIL 

Three  days  after  they  were  at  Polperran. 

Mohammad  Ali  had  telegraphed  on  full  directions  to  Seeta,  as  to 
their  arrival  and  reception,  in  the  longest  telegram  that  had  ever  been 
received  at  the  Polperran  office.  They  drove  up  at  once  by  themselves 
to  the  rectory.  In  accordance  with  Ali's  express  wishes,  Olwen  was 
seated  alone  in  the  drawing-room  when  Ivan  arrived.  She  rose  to 
meet  him,  with  both  arms  outstretched,  like  a  child  who  welcomes  a 
favourite  companion.  But  at  sight  of  Ivan,  the  young  girl  developing 
again  in  due  course  in  her  heart,  made  her  draw  back  and  blush  like  a 
girl  with  her  lover.  She  held  out  one  hand  to  him,  timidly,  with 
maiden  shyness,  wondering  whether  she  had  not  done  wrong  already 
to  show  at  first  sight  so  much  pleasure  at  his  presence. 

Ivan  seized  it  and  pressed  it  hard.  Then,  being  (as  Ali  had  rightly 
said)  a  man,  he  waited  no  longer,  but  clasped  her  tight  in  his  encircling 
arms,  and  kissed  her  fervently,  a  lover's  kiss,  on  her  full  red  lips  and 
pale  white  forehead. 

At  tlie  kiss,  all  th^  woman  within  her  awoke  once  more.     Her  fac« 


THB   DBYIL^B   DIB.  267 

flushed  with  a  vivid  crimson.  A  whirlwind  of  passion  swept  through 
her  bosom.  Olwen  Chichelo  was  herself  at  once.  She  remembered  all 
— all  that  it  was  to  love  and  be  loved  ;  but  nothing  more.  She  awoke 
to  herself,  and  not  to  the  terrible  remembrance  of  Harry. 

Like  a  woman  now,  she  drew  back  from  his  embrace  in  half -in- 
dignant surprise.     *'  Oh,   Ivan,"   she  cried,    **  I  never  told  you " 

and  then  she  hesitated. 

"  No,  darling,"  Ivan  said,  seating  her  gently  with  his  arms  on  the 
sofa  behind.  **  You  never  told  me  ;  but  I  guessed  it ;  I  knew  it !  I 
was  sure  you  loved  me  1 " 

Olwen  drew  her  hand  with  a  puzzled  look  across  her  brow  and  her 
eyes.  **  I  can't  remember,  you  know,"  she  cried  plaintively.  *'  I 
can't  piece  it  all  together  as  it  went,  somehow.  But  I  know  you  loved 
me  here,  long,  long  ago.  I  remember  you  painted  me,  Ivan,  in  this 
very  garden. " 

**  Never  mind  the  past,  darling,"  Ivan  whispered  low,  holding  her 
little  white  hand  tight  in  his  own  big  brown  one.  **  Think  only  of 
the  future.  It  will  be  brighter  for  us  both.  Olwen,  you're  mine,  and 
I've  come  to  claim  you." 

Olwen  didn't  try  to  withdraw  her  hand.  He  pressed  it  once  more. 
Then  he  waited  anxiously.  Next  instant,  he  felt  her  timidly  return 
the  pressure. 

They  sat  there  mute,  in  that  silence  that  is  far  more  expressive  than 
words,  for  many  minutes.  At  last,  Olwen  turned  to  him  with  her 
childish  simplicity,  and  murmured  in  his  ear,  **  Ivan,  I  think  now  I'm 
very  happy,*' 

Ivan  kissed  her  once  more,  unreproved.  She  thrilled  at  the  kisa 
with  a  vague  recollection. 

*'  Ivan,"  she  asked  again  softly  after  a  pause,  half  hiding  her  head 
on  his  broad  shoulder,  "  why  did  we  ever  part  at  all?  Why  did  you 
go  away  so  far  to  America  ?  " 

He  hesitated  awhile.  Then  he  decided  to  risk  it.  **  You  sent  me. 
Olwen." 

The  poor  girl  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes  a  second  time  with  silent 
wonderment.  "There's  a  sort  of  cloud,"  she  said,  **  that  makes  me 
forget  things.  I  fancy  I  somehow  wanted  to  love  you,  and  thought  it 
was  wicked — I  don't  know  why.  Ivan,  Ivan,  do  tell  me,  darling  ?  h 
it  wicked  to  love  you  ?  " 

She  spoke  appealingly.  Ivan  drew  her  face  up  to  his  own  between 
his  hands  a  third  time.  '*  No,  darling,"  he  said.  *'  It  is  right  H  la 
good.     As  soon  as  you  will,  Olwen,  we  two  will  be  married." 

He  said  it  in  an  agony  of  fear  and  trembling,  lest  that  crucial  word 
should  at  last  bring  back  the  past  to  her  bewildered  mind.  But  Olwen 
heard  it  without  one  passing  sign  of  dread  or  recollection.  "  When« 
ever  you  please,"  she  whispered,  blushing  bright  again,  "  f or  I  think, 
Ivan,  then  1  shall  understand  better." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Ivan  rose  to  go.  He  thought  Olwen  had  seen  ai 
much  of  him  for  the  tirst  day  as  was  at  all  good  for  her.    He  held  her 


268  '  THE   DEVIL'S   DIB. 

hand  to  say  gbod-bye  as  she  stood  facing  him.  **  And  now,  Olwen,** 
he  said,  with  a  serious  tone,  "you  must  see  Ali.  You  must  thank 
All.  Be  sure  you  thank  him  with  all  your  heart.  You  can  never  know 
how  good  and  true  that  dear  fellow  has  always  been  to  us." 

*'  Seeta  told  me  so,"  Olwen  answered  in  her  sweet  low  voice.  "  Dear 
Ali !  he  helped  you  in  the  desert  and  he  helped  you  in  the  shipwreck. 
I  do  so  like  him.  I  thought  when  Seeta  spoke  to  me  of  it  I  should 
love  to  throw  my  arms  right  round  him  and  kiss  him.  But  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  Ivan  ;  since  you  came  here  this  morning  I  feel  quite 
different.  A  something  strange  has  come  over  me  everywhere.  I 
never  was  shy  of  Ali  before  ;  but  I'm  somehow  quit©  shy  of  him  now, 
this  morning." 

Ivan  read  her  little  soul  aright  in  a  moment.  The  woman  within  hei 
had  quickened  again,  and  she  felt  a  natural  reserve  now  at  meeting 
the  man  who  through  fire  and  flood  had  brought  her  back  her  lover. 
*'  Olwen,"  he  said,  speaking  with  all  his  utmost  earnestness  and  force, 
**  you  must  be  very,  very  kind  and  grateful  to  Ali.  Try  to  get  over 
your  feeling  of  shyness,  Ali  has  done  for  you  what  no  other  man  on 
ear'  h  would  ever  have  done.  No  woman  on  earth  but  you  deserves 
such  devotion.  Let  Ali  see  that  you  fully  appreciate  him.  Be  good 
to  him,  darling,  for  he  has  been  good  to  you  and  good  to  me  in  a  way 
that  asks  for  all  our  gratitude.  We  can  never  repay  him.  And  don't 
forget  for  worlds  about  the  ring.  Remember  to  tell  him  it  just  as  I 
told  you." 

Olwen  bowed  a  little  bow  of  gentle  assent.  *'  And  must  I  tee  him 
alone  ?  "  she  asked  shrinkingly. 

*'You  must  see  him  alone,"  Ivan  answered,  with  a  resolute  air. 
**  He  and  you  will  have  things  to  say  to  one  another  to-day  that  can 
never  be  said  before  any  third  person.  Ali  is  our  brother.  Treat  him 
like  one.  No  white-skinned  nian  that  ever  lived  deserved  half  as  much 
of  us  as  that  dear  kind  Ali." 

When  Ali  came  in,  shy  and  awkward  as  herself,  a  few  minutes  later, 
Olwen  rose  like  a  woman  at  last  to  meet  him.  She  talked  to  him  seda- 
tely, with  grave  and  earnest  kindliness,  not  like  the  simple  child  he 
had  left  behind  when  he  went  to  America,  but  like  the  sweet  and  pure- 
souled  woman  he  had  known  in  old  days  in  Harry  Chichele's  house  in 
London.  She  thanked  him  with  grateful  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  thanked 
him  with  natural,  heart-felt  phrases  that  thrilled  through  his  soul,  and 
made  him  long  to  go  down  on  his  knees  in  ecstacy  before  her.  He 
seized  her  hand  and  raised  it  with  oriental  courtesy  to  his  lips.  Olwen 
permitted  him  to  kiss  it  without  rebuke.  The  kiss  sent  fire  vibrating 
down  his  spine  and  his  marrow.  He  laid  her  hand  down  again  and 
drew  off  the  ring  she  Iwid  given  him  from  his  finger.  "  This  is  yours," 
he  said,  handing  it  to  her  with  a  smile.  *'  I  have  worn  it  for  your 
^Kke  through  many  perils  and  dangers.  But  I've  brought  it  back  safe 
again — the  ring  and  Ivan." 

Olwen  raised  his  dusky  hand  in  hers  and  slipped  it  gently  on  again. 
**  Ifc  is  yours,"  she  said.  ' '  We  want  you  to  keep  it.  Ivan  wishes  you 
to  wear  it  slwayn,  in  mtioiory  of  both  of  us.    See  here,"  and  ah*  bold 


tHB   devil's  DIB.  26$ 

op  her  own  small  right  hand  timidly  before  him  ;  "  Ivan  bought  me 
another  in  London  yesterday  exactly  like  it,  because  he  wanted  you  to 
keep  that  one." 

Ali  lifted  the  rings  to  his  lips  one  after  the  other,  on  his  own  hand 
and  01  wen's,  and  kissed  them  both  in  a  fervour  of  devotion.  **  1  will 
keep  it,"  he  said,  with  a  choked  voice.  *'  You  are  too  good  to  me. 
I  hope  and  pray  yours  may  bring  you  happiness. " 

They  stood  comforting  one  another  for  a  minute  more  in  eilence. 
Then  Ali  said,    "I  must  go  now,  and  send  back  Ivan." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  took  it  like  a  sister.  Then,  yielding  to 
the  sudden  inspiration  of  a  moment,  she  held  up  her  lips  to  his  with 
Bweet  simplicity.  Black  as  he  was,  she  could  not  shrink  from  him. 
*' I  don't  think,  she  said,  "Ivan  would  forbid  me.  You've  been  so 
very,  very  good  to  us  always,  dear  Ali  1 " 

Ali  bent  down  and  touched  them  lightly  and  chivalrously  with  his 
own.  It  was  the  one  reward  of  his  long  and  faithful  service.  He 
asked  for  no  more.  He  was  amply  repaid  by  that  alone  for  all  his  toils 
and  cares  and  hardships.  But  as  he  himself  had  truly  said,  it  finally 
signed  his  warrant  of  exile.  That  touch  had  broken  down  the  barrier 
of  race  between  them.  There  was  nothing  possible  for  it  now  but 
Italy. 

Meanwhile,  as  Ivan  went  out  just  before  from  his  interview  with 
Olwen,  Lizbeth  met  him  in  the  passage,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  '*  8h£,^s 
in  the  garden,"  the  girl  said,  simply.  *'  You'd  ought  to  see  her.  But 
don't  be  took  aback.  You'll  find  her  changed.  She's  felt  it  dreadful. 
She  ain't  wot  she  used  to  be." 

"  Who  ?"    Ivan  asked,  oblivious  for  the  moment  of  all  but  Olwen. 

*•  Wy, 'er,"  the  girl  answered.  "The  tall  'un.  Miss  Mayne.  You 
ought  to  see  'er.  She's  a  waiting  there  for  you.  I  know  she  wants 
to  see  yer  as  soon  as  you're  through  with  the  other." 

Ivan  went  out  with  hasty  steps  into  the  garden  at  the  back.  There 
on  the  lawn  he  saw  Seeta.  But,  oh,  what  aSeeta  I  He  started  with 
surprise  when  his  eyes  first  fell  uyon  her.  To  those  at  Polperran, 
who  had  watched  her  constantly  from  day  to  day,  the  change  in  that 
beautiful  imperious  woman  had  oome  so  slowly  and  continued  so  grad- 
ually that  they  scarcely  recognized  it.  But  to  Ivan  Royle,  who  had 
never  seen  her  for  more  than  two  years,  the  diflFerence  was  nothing 
sluirt  oi  appalling.  She  was  beautiful  still,  indeed,  and  still  imperious  ; 
bufc  it  was  with  the  calm  cold  beauty  of  more  than  middle-age,  the 
imperious  gait  of  a  queen  who  has  lost  her  empire.  Her  hair  was 
tinged  with  not  ungraceful  white  ;  her  carriage  was  prouder  and  firmer 
than  of  old  ;  her  eyes  were  yet  large  and  luminous  as  ever.  But  a  set- 
tled melancholy  brooded  over  her  face.  It  >"as  clear  that  Seeta  Mayne 
had  lived  her  life.  Like  a  shadow,  she  moved  now  through  the  world 
of  living  and  breathing  creatures.  Majestic  and  proud  and  stately  aa 
of  yore,  her  state) iness  seemed  yet  like  a  mere  reminiscence  of  some 
former  state.  She  looked  a  Louis  Quinze  marquise  descended  from 
■ome  painted  picture  on  the  wall,  not  a  flesh  and  blood  being  of  oui 


270  THE  DRTIL*S   DII. 

actual  century.  Sorrow  had  stamped  itself  deep  upon  her  face  ;  the 
beauty  of  a  great  grief  was  all  that  she  had  left  now — a  great  grief  borne 
with  endurance,  though  not  with  resignation. 

But  what  shocked  Ivan  Royle  more  than  all  the  rest  was  the  deep 
black  in  which  she  was  habited  from  head  to  foot,  like  a  widow  in  tlie 
fii'st  few  months  of  her  widowhood.  He  found  01  wen  dressed  in  a 
simple  little  black  and  white  morning  robe,  with  a  mauve  bow  at  her 
lu'ck  and  some  bright  flowers  stuck  prettily  in  her  bosom  ;  but  Seeta 
wi.s  clad  throughout  in  crape  of  the  deepest,  unrelieved  by  the  slight- 
"Ht  (lash  of  color  or  of  ornament.  Her  clear  olive  skin,  somewhat  pal(>r 
!li;in  Its  wont,  made  her  look  all  the  graver  and  more  saddened  in 
a- poet.  Undisguised  loss  was  the  keynote  of  her  appearance.  Ivan 
started  with  surprise  at  the  sight.  Seeta  smiled  a  wan  and  bitter  smile, 
as  she  held  out  her  thin  and  wasted  hand  to  him.  "  Oh  yes,  I'm 
changed,"  she  said,  with  quiet  irony,  "Greatly  changed.  I  know  it. 
I  feel  it.  But  it  was  hardly  polite  of  you,  Ivan,  to  remark  it  so  dis- 
tinctly." 

"  Seeta,"  her  cousin  said,  taking  her  cold  hand  in  his  with  unspoken 
sympathy,  '*  I  hadn't  heard  of  this.  Has  anything  happened  ?  Have 
you — lost— any  one  1  " 

SoetA  turned  upon  him  at  once  with  a  sudden  flash  of  hor  grand  old 
manner.  "Whom  had  I  to  lose?'  she  inquired,  almost  fiercely. 
*'  I've  lost  all.  All,  all  long  since.  And  you  know  it.  Don't  torture 
me,  Ivan,  by  asking  me  any  questions  or  olfcring  me  any  condolences. 
You  know  who  I  am.  You  know  for  whom  I  drape  myself  so.  I'm 
Harry  Chichele's  only  widow.  Do  you  think  I  could  forget  him,  like 
that  pretty  little  pink-and-white  doll  in  the  drawing-room  ?  I  love 
her  Ivan  ;  I  love  her  dearly — because  she  was  his.  As  his,  I  cherish 
her.  For  twelve  long  months  I've  watched  over  her  tenderly  and 
cared  for  her  like  a  sister.  And  now  you've  come  to  take  her  from 
him,  1  can  go  shortly — I  can  go  and  cry  for  him.  Do  you  see  these 
clothes  ?  I  put  them  on  upon  the  day  Harry  Chichele  died,  and  aa 
long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  put  them  off  a<j;ain.  When  I  die,  I  ohall 
ask  to  bo  buried  in  them.  You've  seen  Olwen.  Does  she  mean  to 
marry  you  ?  " 

"  She  does,"  Ivan  answered,  speechless  before  the  proud  cold 
woiiiau's  concentrated  wretchedness. 

Seut^  Mayne  clasped  her  while  hands  hard  together.  **  She  means 
o  marry  you  1 "  she  cried  in  an  agonized  voice.  '*  And  she  was  once 
Harry  Chichele's  wife!  Oh,  God,  it's  terrible  1  What  on  earth  can 
-  he  be  made  of  1  But  it's  better  so.  When  Harry  Chichele's  wife  has 
Kiveii  herself  away  to  another  man,  I  shall  know  I'm  indeed  Harry 
Chichele's  widow. 

"  Seeta,"  Ivan  said,  looking  her  full  in  the  face  with  unfeigned  com- 
passion, **  I  respect  your  unspeakable  sorrow  too  nmch  to  dream  of 
offering  you  the  empty  compliment  of  my  spoken  sympathy." 

Seeta  took  something  from  her  bosom  with  reverent  care.  It  was 
tied  round  her  neck  by  a  silken  string.  She  handed  it  to  Ivan,  like  a 
lacred  relic,  clutching  the  string  tight  in  her  grasp  meanwhile,  as  if  she 


TH  devil's  dim,  171 

feared  to  let  that  precious  object  go  one  moment  from  her  possession. 
It  was  a  plain  gold  locket.  "  Look  there  1 "  she  cried,  opening  the 
ralves  as  she  spoke,  "  That  wa«  Harry  Chichele's  1  I  took  it  that  day 
•ff  Harry  Chichele's  dead  body  before  he  was  buried.  See  the  portrait* 
inside  1  The  first  is  Olwen's.  But  the  second,  beneath  it,  and  nearest 
his  heart — J  looked  like  that  once,  you  remember,  Ivan.  I've  worn 
that  locket  next  ray  heart  ever  since.  It  has  risen  and  fallen  with  each 
pulse  of  my  bosom.  I  know  he  did  wrong.  I  know  I  did  wrong.  We 
have  had  our  punishment.  We  have  suffered  for  it  bitterly.  He  wai 
uiitTue  to  Olwen — in  heart,  at  least — and  Olwen,  who  was  his,  is  going 
to  call  herself  another  .nan's  wife.  He  was  true  to  me,  and  I,  who  am 
his  still,  now  and  for  ever,  am  going  to  mourn  for  him  as  his  widow  till 
I  die.  I  have  had  my  punishment.  Look  at  me,  Ivan,  and  tell  me  if 
you  think  it  has  not  been  severe  enough  ?  " 

Ivan  looked  at  her.  "  No  woman,"  he  said,  with  solemn  conviction, 
**  ever  bore  a  heavier." 

**  Thank  you,"  Seeta  answered,  with  a  stately  inclination  of  her  grand 
white  face.  "One  likes  one's  suffering  to  beat  least  recognized.  I 
■hall  go  soon,  Ivan.  I  shall  live  once  more  by  myself  at  Cannes.  I 
can  endure  it  no  longer  in  this  desecrated  England." 

Ivan  Royle  took  her  hand  in  mute  regret.  For  shame  and  grief  like 
hers  there  is  no  consolation  and  no  hope.  He  could  treat  it  only  with 
respectful  silence.  Seeta  never  winced  nor  flinched  for  a  moment. 
She  was  too  proud  to  show  her  anguish  by  word  or  by  tears.  She  let 
his  hand  drop  like  lead  by  his  side,  and  glided  with  her  queenly  tread 
from  the  garden. 

Six  weeks  later,  Ivan  and  Olwen  were  married  at  a  parish  church 
away  in  Surrey.  They  did  not  care  to  have  their  wedding  at  home  at 
Polperran.  Next  day,  as  they  dined  at  an  hotel  at  Boulogne,  Ivan 
received  a  short  note  with  the  Paris  postmark.  "  My  dear  Ivan,"  it 
■aid  briefly,  "  I  am  here  on  my  way  through  to  Naples.  I  shall  send 
you  my  address  there  as  soon  as  I  have  one.  I  hope  to  be  of  use  in  the 
city  of  plagues  among  the  poorer  population.  Love  to  your  wife. — 
Youn  ever  affectionately,  Mohammad  All" 

Olwen  laid  down  tha  note  with  a  sigh.  "Darling,"  she  said,  "I 
love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul ;  out  there  never  lirtd  »  better 
■an  om  «tfti»  than  a«ar  old  Aii." 


